Stay Alive For Now
by nunchikoi
Summary: A reimagined story where everything is the same except Cedric Diggory lives. Staying as close to the canon timeline as possible, J.K Rowling's original text has been recycled with my own writing carrying most of the chapters.
1. The Graveyard

Harry felt his feet slam into the ground; his injured leg gave way and he fell forwards; his hand let go of the Triwizard Cup at last. He raised his head.

"Where are we?" he said. Cedric shook his head. He got up, pulled Harry to his feet, and they looked around.

They had left the Hogwarts grounds completely, obviously travelled miles—perhaps a hundred miles—or even the mountains surrounding the castle were gone. They were standing instead in a dark and overgrown graveyard; the back outline of a small church was visible beyond a large yew tree to their right. A hill rose above them to their left. Harry could just make the outline of a fine old house on the hillside. Cedric looked down at the Triwizard Cup and then up at Harry.

'Did anyone tell you the Cup was a Portkey?' he asked.

'Nope,' said Harry. He was looking around the graveyard. It was completely silent and slightly eerie. 'Is this supposed to be part of the task?'

'I dunno,' said Cedric. He sounded slightly nervous. 'Wands out, d'you reckon?'

'Yeah,' said Harry, glad that Cedric had made the suggestion rather than him.

They pulled out their wands. Harry kept looking around him. He had, yet again, the strange feeling that they were being watched.

'Someone's coming,' he said suddenly.

Squinting tensely through the darkness, they watch the figure drawing nearer, walking steadily towards them between the graves. Harry couldn't make out a face; but from the way it was walking, and holding its arms, he could tell that it was carrying something. Whoever they were, they were short, and wearing a hooded cloak pulled up over their head to obscure their face and—several paces nearer, the space between them closing all the time—he saw that the thing in the person's arms looked like a baby ... or was it merely a bundle of robes?

Harry lowered his wand slightly and glanced sideways at Cedric. For a second, Harry and Cedric and the short figure simply looked at each other.

And then, without warning, Harry's scar exploded with pain. It was agony such as he had never felt in all his life; his wand slipped from his fingers as he put his hands over his face; his knees buckled; he was on the ground and he could see nothing at all, his head was about to split open.

'Harry?' Hurriedly, Cedric knelt beside Harry, pressing his hand against his back, 'What's wrong Harry?'

From far away, above his head, Harry heard a high, cold voice say 'Kill the spare.'

There was a swishing noise and a blast of green light blazed through Harry's eyelids, and he heard something heavy fall to the ground beside him; the pain in his scar reached such a pitch that he retched, and then it diminished; terrified of what he was about to see, he opened his sting eyes.

Cedric was lying spread-eagled on the ground beside him. He was dead.

Harry stopped breathing, he stared into Cedric's face, how he lay almost peacefully; eyes closed and mouth half-open, asleep. But in the cold moonlight, with the crack! of the killing curse ringing in his ears, the sound of Cedric's body falling onto the ground; Harry could fixate on the feeling of cold sweat drip, dripping down his neck.

Shit,  
Shit shit shi-

His mind couldn't comprehend it, numbed down by disbelief, but his body was already wrought in shallow breath; hot tears stung at Harry's eyes. It was the first time he'd seen a body, he felt nauseous, sick. And yet he couldn't tear his eyes away—for this one, eternal second, Harry felt his knees go slack, not out of his scar's pain but rather something that gurgled out of his chest. He choked out a shaky and heartbroken,

"**Cedric.**"

The second passed and then suddenly he was being pulled to his feet. The short man in the cloak had put down his bundle, lit his wand, and was dragging Harry towards the marble headstone. Harry saw the name upon the tombstone, it's letters dyed in the wand-light before he was forced around and slammed against it.

TOM RIDDLE

Harry could hear shallow, fast breathing from the depths of the hooded man; he struggled, and the man hit him - hit him with a hand that had a finger missing. And Harry realised who was under the hood.

It was Wormtail.

'You!' he gasped.

But Wormtail didn't reply, busy strapping Harry against the headstone with rope, stuffing his mouth with some material from his cloak. Unable to move, unable to scream, Harry could only stare; stare as Wormtail's trembling fingers fumbled with the knot, stare at the bundle at his feet and how it shifted and squirmed underneath. Harry stared at Cedric's body, lying twenty feet away. And then some way beyond him, glinting in the starlight, lay the Triwizard Cup. Harry stared at the unfamiliar sky, stared at his wand which lay on the ground out of reach.

He began to pray.

...

'Now untie him, Wormtail, and give him back his wand.'

Harry fell to the ground and dug into the soil of the earth, only breathing in shaky and deep breaths. His injured leg twitched and he gripped his wand so tightly, he was almost certain that it'd break. But as the pain and terror settled in, Harry stood up with an even darker feeling, shooting from his leg up his spine; hatred.

'You have been taught how to duel, Harry Potter?' said Voldemort softly, his red eyes glinting through the darkness. At this words Harry remembered, as though from a former life, the Duelling Club at Hogwarts he had attended briefly two years ago ... all he had learnt there was the Disarming spell, 'Expelliarmus' ... and what use would it be, even if he could, to deprive Voldemort of his wand, when he was surrounded by Death Eaters, outnumbered by at least thirty to one? He knew he was facing the thing against which Moody had always warned .. the unblockable Avada Kedavra curse—and Voldemort was—his mother was not here to die for him this time... he was quite unprotected ...

'We bow to each other, Harry,' said Voldemort, bending a little, but keeping his snake-like face upturned to Harry. 'Come, the niceties must be observed .. Dumbledore would like to show manners ... bow to death, Harry ...'

The Death Eaters were laughing again, Voldemort's lipless mouth was smiling, Harry did not bow. He was not going to let Voldemort play with him before killing him ... he was not going to give him that satisfaction ...

...

Harry crouched behind the headstone and knew the end had come. The breath heavy through his chest, his leg throbbing, his glasses and his face dirtied and covered in his own blood—there was no hope ... no help to be had.

But he was not going to die crouching here like a child playing hide-and-seek; he was not going to die kneeling at Voldemort's feet ... he was going to die upright like his father, and he was going to die trying to defend himself, even if no defence was possible. Before Voldemort could stick his snake-like face around the headstone, Harry had stood up ... he gripped his wand tightly in his head, thrust it out in front of him, and threw himself around the headstone, facing Voldemort.

Voldemort was ready. As Harry shouted 'Expelliarmus!', Voldemort cried, 'Avada Kedava!'

A jet of green light issued from Voldemort's wand just as a jet of red light blasted from Harry's—they met in mid-air—and suddenly, Harry's wand was vibrating as though an electric charge was surging through it; his hand had seized up around it; he couldn't have released it even if he'd wanted to - and a narrow beam of light was now connecting the two wands, neither red nor green, but bright, deep gold - and Harry, following the beam with his astonishing gaze, saw that Voldemort's white fingers, too, were gripping a wand that was shaking and vibrating.

"Do nothing!" Voldemort shrieked to the Death Eaters. They were in utter disbelief at the sight of their master held in a lock with a teenage boy. Voldemort turned to face his opponent, and Harry saw his red eyes wide with astonishment at what was happening, saw him fighting to break the thread of light still connecting his wand with Harry's; Harry held onto his wand more tightly, with both hands, and the golden thread remained unbroken. 'Do nothing unless I command you!' Voldemort shouted to the Death Eaters.

But then an unearthly and beautiful sound filled the air ... it was coming from every thread of the light-spun web vibrating around Harry and Voldemort. Soft yet triumphant singing, the sound of horns swelling to an unbridled chorus of hope. As though a friend was speaking in his ear, Harry heard,

Do not break the connection.

I know, Harry told the music, I know I mustn't. Harry's wand began to vibrate more powerfully than ever ... and now the beam between him and Voldemort changed ... it was as though large beads of light were sliding up and down the thread connecting the wands - Harry felt his wand give a shudder, as the light beads began to slide slowly and steadily his way ... the direction of the beam's movement was now towards him, from Voldemort, and he felt his wand shudder angrily. One of the beads of light was quivering, inches from the tip of Voldemort's wand. Harry didn't understand why or what he was doing, but he still began to concentrate every last particle of his mind into forcing the beads back to Voldemort and slowly, slowly; the beads halted and began to waft the other way. It was Voldemort's wand that was vibrating extra hard now and Voldemortwho looked astonished, and almost fearful. As the bead of light moved along the golden thread, it trembled for a moment, just before the tip of Voldemort's wand and then ... it connected.

At once, Voldemort's wand began to emit echoing screams of pain ... then - Voldemort's red eyes widened with shock - a dense, smoky hand flew out of the tip of it and vanished ... the ghost of the hand he had made Wormtail ... more shouts of pain ... and then something large began to blossom from Voldemort's wand tip; a great and bright something, that looked as though it was made from solid light ... it was a head ... then a chest and arms, and now .. the torso of Cedric Diggory.

Harry almost released his wand out of shock, but instinct willed his fingers to stay closed and rigid. Cedric's bright figure glanced towards him, and looked up and down the golden thread of light. Then he spoke soft, yet the words were so loud it rang clear in Harry's mind;

'Hold on, just a little while longer,' Cedric said.

And there were some frightened yells from the Death Eaters, unable to enter the yellow-golden dome that webbed around Harry and Voldemort. Suddenly more screams from the wand ... and then something else emerged, this time a dark and dense shadow, as if made from smoke and tufts of grey cloud. Squeezing out with a head, arms and torso, Harry recognized the figure of the old man from his dreams walking from beside Cedric. He eyed Voldemort.

'He was a real wizard, then?' he said, and unlike Cedric, his voice and words echoed as if he was far away.

'Killed me, that one did ... you fight him, boy ...'

'Don't let go, now!' someone cried, another dark shadow or ghost but in the shape of Bertha Jorkins echoing just like the old man. 'Don't let him get you, Harry - don't let go!'

She, the old man and more of Voldemort's victims, their shadows less humanoid and more wisps, circled and wafted around the duelers; whispering hope to Harry and hissing at his opponents. Another head began to emerge from the tip of Voldemort's wand ... and Harry knew when he saw it who it would be ... he knew, as though he had expected it from the moment when Cedric had appeared from the wand ... knew, because the woman appearing was the one he'd thought of more than any other tonight ...

The smoky shadow of a young woman with long hair fell to the ground as Cedric, the old man and Bertha had done, before straightening up and looking at him ... and Harry, his arms shaking madly now, looked back into the ghostly face of his mother.

'Your father's coming ...' she said quietly. 'He wants to see you ... it will be alright ... hold on ...'

And he came ... first his head, then his body ... tall and untidy-hair like Harry, the smoke, shadowy form of James Potter blossomed from the end of Voldemort's wand, fell to the ground, and straightened like his wife. He walked close to Harry, looking down at him, and he spoke in the same distant, echoing voice as the others, but quietly, so that Voldemort, his face now livid with fear as his victims prowled around him could not hear ...

'When the connection is broken, we will linger for only moments ... but we will give you time ... you must get to the Portkey, it will return you to Hogwarts ... do you understand Harry?'

'Yes,' Harry gasped; fighting now to keep a hold on his wand, which was slipping and sliding beneath his fingers.

'Harry ...' it was Cedric whispering into his ear now, but again unlike the others, it was like Cedric was there; like he was speaking and breathing, like his hands really held onto Harry's shoulder and spread warmth across his body.  
But there was nothing there.

'Take my body back, will you? Take me back home with you.' Cedric says.

'I will!' Harry huffed out. It took more and more effort to talk.

'You're doing so well darling,' it was his mother's voice now, so sweet and unexpected that Harry's eyes began to well, his vision turning blurry and vague as Lily Potter spoke.

'Harry? Harry, take care of yourself won't you? I've asked your friend to take care of you too... You'll both get out of here, I swear it!' she said and Harry nodded furiously, knowing that his mother would smile.

'Do it now,' whispered his father's voice. 'Be ready to run ... do it now ...'

'NOW!' Harry yelled; he didn't think he could have held on for a moment anyway - he pulled his hand upwards with an almighty wrench, and the golden thread broke. The cord of light vanished, the song died - but the shadowy figures of Voldemort's victims did not disappear - they were closing in upon Voldemort, shielding Harry from his gaze -

In this eternal moment, Harry could only watch as the figures of his mother and father disintegrated into a grey and violent cloud that wrapped around Voldemort, who screamed and howled like a rush of wind. Harry felt himself being pushed and, upon realizing that Cedric's bright figure and warm hands were pushing him to go; Harry ran for his life, piercing his way through the gaggle of stunned Death Eaters, and zig-zagging between the headstones. Eventually, he heard the cracks of spells whizzing from behind him, stinging the grass and whipping the ground beneath his feet.

'Stand aside! I will kill him, he is mine!' shrieked Voldemort. But he was too late. Harry had dived towards Cedric, making sure to hold the older boy's hand tightly while he pointed his wand towards the Cup and yelled 'Accio!'; the trophy leaping up and soaring towards him. When Harry caught the handle, he lost sight of the Death Eaters, and the graveyard and Voldemort's piercing scream all together, as for a second time tonight, Harry felt himself jerked into Portkey travel; lost in a whirl of wind and colour, with Cedric by his side.


	2. Breathe,

Harry felt himself slam flat into the ground, his face pressed into the grass, the smell of it filling his nostrils. He had closed his eyes while the Portkey transported him, and he kept them closed now. He did not move. All the breath has been knocked out of him; his head was swimming so badly he felt as though the ground beneath him was swaying like the deck of a ship. To hold himself steady, he tightened his hold on the two things he was still clutching—the smooth cold handle of the Triwizard Cup, and Cedric's hand.

Tears streamed down his face, as he cried into Cedric's chest. He could hear the band playing. A victorious tune pumped out of the horn while all around him, Hogwarts students rioted in raucous cheer. But it soon trailed away, as Harry pressed a sob to his hands, the only sound that echoed from his rattled his heart.

Realization hit as their champions stayed still, pressed to the ground.

A torrent of sound trickled and soon deafened Harry's ears, as if the world suddenly started moving again, but much faster than what he was used to. Everywhere he heard voices, footsteps and screams, but Harry remained where he was, gripping onto Cedric's shirt, willing either himself or everything else to fade away.

"Harry?"

"Oh my _lord—_"

"Harry!"

A pair of hands seized at his shirt but Harry could only bat them away and scream _"No!"_, before he finally opened his eyes to face the crowd that had gathered; Cornelius Fudge, Snape, Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Fleur, and Krum—Harry's vision blurred all the bodies that stood above his own, and all the faces that stared in shock.

"He's back!" Harry said as loud as he could, voice breaking, "Voldemort is back!"

Everyone around him and those huddled in the stands fell to a steep silence, but it wasn't long before before a stream of cries and rioting noise rang out into the night, Dumbledore yelling for order, Fudge sputtering in exclamation—_"My god, is that Cedric, dead?!" _—and then; the sound of someone sprinting through the stands, frantic and insistent on forcing himself into the inner circle.

"Let me in! He's my son! Let me through!" Mr Diggory yelled. Harry felt his stomach drop as he watched Mr Diggory push through and, upon seeing the body, fall to his knees.

"My, my boy!" he whispered, in a voice that cracked and devastated so deeply that, in all the noise and racket, Harry felt like he had been stabbed. Someone tried to pull him away again, "Let go now Harry, let go," they said. But even as Mr Diggory keeled over Cedric, body wretched in a sob, Harry couldn't let go—it felt like something had died inside him.

"I'm so s-sorry," he says and he wish it didn't hurt. The pain he swallowed choked him, and his voice crumbled down an echo of disparity, "I couldn't save—he tried to—"

"Wait! Wait Potter, Amos!" McGonagall suddenly gasped, "He's... I think he's breathing!"

Harry opened his eyes, the sounds of his reality fading away. Only the rasp of Cedric's breath passed through, shaky and shallow. His expression shifted, it sounded like his throat stuttered, while his eyes twitched; discomfort and pain twinged in his face and body. Still breathing.

Still alive.

"-ry... H-" Cedric breathed and everyone's heart stopped "..Harry."

At that soft and weary whisper of his name, Harry felt himself falter and loosen his grip on Cedric's shirt, as if all the energy; all the tension that kept him up had drained out.

Mr Diggory cried out, stroking and kissing Cedric's face in relief.

"Get him to the infirmary!" Dumbledore boomed. A new surge of feet and bodies rushed to Cedric's aid and Harry let himself be pulled away, tugged through the crowd that slowly thickened.

"It's all right son," Harry heard, already miles away in his head, "I've got you ... come on to hospital wing ..."

It was Moody's voice and hand that coaxed him along, and while Harry didn't know where he was being taken—for now it wasn't too important.

Because tonight, he and Cedric were both alive.

They survived the graveyard.

Three days since that night, after unmasking Barty Crouch Jr and discovering the real Moody locked away in a box—after Fudge's accusation of Harry being a liar; Hermione and the Weasley family's incessant questions of whether he was okay and the Diggorys' profuse expressions of gratitude for rescuing their son; Harry was finally alone in the hospital wing.

He had woken up with a jolt, cold sweat on his brow and hands that trembled as he recovered from another nightmare; another dream spent in the graveyard. The feeling of grease and grime stayed fresh, as if still smeared on his limbs, and the smell the freshly turned dirt gagged Harry sour; he could still see Voldemort's spindly, twisted body writhing in a bundle of black cloth. Harry watched as Death Eater surrounded him and closed in, and from where he stood; Tom Riddle Sr's bony hand had grabbed his ankles, dragging him into a pit of bones and squirming maggots and wooden walls that slowly enclosed to crush his body. Worst of all, Harry could hear things still; the sound of Voldemort's slithery voice, the cracking noise of spells that grazed and whizzed past his body and finally, the sound of Cedric's body hitting the earth—this time, accompanied by the image of his head thrown back, eyes left open and mouth agape—nothing but nothing and death haunting his eyes.

Blind in the darkness, gasping and fighting to breathe, Harry tried to shake it off; fearing that his heart would beat too far and break open his own chest. He sat upright, trying to distract himself, focusing his attention on anything and everything. Up and down his arms, legs and the mattress of his bed, Harry's hands flew, as his mind tried with all its effort to focus on feeling. When it didn't work, Harry swung his legs over, and let his feet touch the cold floor; squirming at an annoying but small pain that prickled in his leg. He focused on the tightness of the bandages wound around his arms, the plaster stuck on his cheek, and the sensation of the cool night settling in his hair.

It was steadier now, in the darkness and as Harry's hands stopped shaking, as he became less and less disgusted with the cold sweat down his nape; he slowly felt more and more ... here.

Harry let his eyes get used to the darkness before he strained to look around. The infirmary's tall windows had cast dark shadows against the floor, moonlight filtering through the glass and wafting where dim candlelight illuminated. Usually, Madame Pomfrey was awake, doing paperwork on her desk and watching over Harry and her other patients, but for tonight she was nowhere to be seen.

It was strange for the infirmary to be so quiet, especially with this years group of inhabitants. Even without the sounds of Madame Pomfrey's quill scratching on parchment, Harry was used to the sounds of Krum snoring, or the few bits of French and English that slipped out when Fleur sleep-talked across the room. They had both returned that afternoon, recovered from their injuries, and leaving with cheery goodbyes, get-well wishes and empty beds in the infirmary.

Moody—the _real _Moody—lay in a bed across from Harry's.

It was surprising to learn that Crouch's Moody was eerily similar to the real one, it almost felt like Harry and the professor had actually met at the beginning of the year. However conversation would be sparse in these hours, Moody was always fast asleep at night, occasionally jerking up and barking incoherent commands, but always, eventually, settling into slumber again.

All that was left of the infirmary's current patients was Harry and Cedric, who occupied bed beside each-other but never seemed to be awake during the same times. Harry was starting to become unsure about whether Cedric really did sleep during the day, or whether he was just avoided. Both thoughts were equally worrying despite being in the midst of their victory in the tournament, Fudge and the Prophet had been quick to brand Harry as a liar.

Cedric had become his only hope in bringing the threat of Voldemort to light and tame his growing controversy within the Wizarding World. Unfortunately, however, Harry hadn't seen Cedric since—

_Woosh!_

Harry jumped at the noise of his curtains being sharply pulled back, holding his breath as Cedric, standing tall and straight, stepped into the light—his face, scratched and plastered, his hair messy and eyes adjusting to the pale moon, before recognizing Harry right in front of him.

Cedric broke away from the surprise first.

"Hello," he smiled, "Glad I got the right bed."

Still mildly startled, Harry mumbled a meek hello back and stared away from Cedric, not knowing where else to look. They hadn't seen each other since that night in the graveyard.

"How—.. How are you?" Cedric asked, "the other day, you must've-.. you must've gone through a lot."

Caught off-guard by question, Harry gaped worriedly at him.

"I would rather ask how you're doing. You-.. I-" Harry shook his head, letting go of a sigh as his mind overloaded with too many burning questions. Cedric sat beside Harry, making him stiffen.

"Do you remember anything?" he asked.

"I hear that you got us back, from the graveyard. You got us home," Cedric said gently.

"You don't remember—" Harry started but then he realized, "You don't remember because you were knocked out!"

He groaned and buried his face into his hands, feeling like an idiot; the hope, the idea of proving Fudge, the Prophet and the entire Wizarding World wrong; melting away immediately.

"Sorry," said Cedric. He locked his fingers locked together and tilted his eyes up at Harry, "Could you tell me what happened? Please?"

Harry shook his head,

"You must've read the Prophet right? I'm sure you know what I think happened."

"I know what _they _think happened, what they think of you, what our Minister of Magic thinks about you—" Cedric squeezed his hands together, "But I don't know what _you _think, and it seems like neither do they."

Harry sighed, "How far do you remember?" he asked.

"Up until your scar started hurting. When that... person that we saw, stupefied me."

_Right._ It was an obvious answer, and a stupid question.

"Okay," Harry and he exhaled shakily, nervous. Cedric waited patiently.

"The cloak man that we saw-.. that was a man named Peter Pettigrew. He cast a spell at you and I thought, that you died," Harry explained, his eyebrows furrowed, "You fell and lay so ... still. I didn't check, I didn't even bother-"

"It's okay." Cedric coaxed, and he nudged him gently, "Keep going."

"After they dealt with you... Worm- Pettigrew, dragged me to this tombstone and tied me to it. Then he went to get the bundled, cloaked thing he was carrying and I thought it was a baby—but no," Harry sighed, "it was much much worse..."

In a half-hour Harry told him everything, the ritual that led to Voldemort's revival, the tale of the night his parents died, how his 'mothers' love' protected him in her sacrifice. Everything he couldn't tell Ron or Hermione, he told Cedric—the Death Eaters, the duel, the strange golden light that connected his and Voldemort's wand for so long, he told him about the spirits of Voldemort's victims that helped him escape—all with Cedric's quiet nudges and murmuring, the only thing that kept Harry going, strangling out the words and fully reliving that night in one conscious sitting.

"Your spirit or soul, it was the first one to, uh, bloom from Voldemort's wand," Harry said, "You asked me to bring your body back... to bring you home to your parents."

Slowly, Cedric turned to look at Harry, almost sad, almost pained.

"Yeah. That one, I remember." he said. Harry's eyes widened.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah… You said that I was golden right? Not grey like the others, like that poor old man or your parents."

"You were."

"Can I tell you something?"

"Please," Harry gestured. Cedric took a sharp breath.

"After I was… knocked out, I woke up I think, in a sorta—hazy distorted version of the graveyard," he clenched his fists, "I thought that I was dead. Or dreaming. But then I saw you... fighting You-Know-Who. I didn't really know who it was at the time but..." Cedric lowered his voice, darkening, "He was definitely powerful and dark, I thought he was the reaper trying to collect my soul."

Harry wanted to push, wanted to ask a little bit more. It was odd and strange and mystifying to hear that Cedric had seen what he had seen, albeit in some sort unconscious dream-state. But Cedric's expression was too thin, this night has had enough of hearts being bared.

"Well, that's all the important stuff I can sum up Cedric, promise," he said, staring at the ceiling, fists tightened, "I managed to escape, get to the Portkey and when we came back to Hogwarts… you started to breathe again."

Harry sighed and flopped back onto his bed, lighter now that he had recalled that night in open air. This was better than the time Harry spoke in Dumbledore's stuffy office, Cedric was more pleasant than the headmaster's previous watchful gaze. But he still couldn't rid of the resounding hole in his chest, the way his stomach curled and coiled in anxiety. It was all too frustrating, every hope dashed, everything too demeaning right now.

Harry felt himself lurch a few centimeters upward as Cedric flopped back onto the bed as well. He thought nothing of it, perhaps Cedric was tired too, until abruptly he broke into a muffled snort.

"What?" Harry asked, as Cedric laughed into his hand, "Why are you laughing?"

"The Boys Who Lied eh?" Cedric said, almost delightfully. So he had read the Prophet recently.

"Not Boys, it's Boy Who Lied. You'll be fine if you don't talk," Harry grumbled, "You're too pretty to be scandalized right?"

Cedric laughed louder much to Harry's relief, he did not mean to sound unkind, but it was still dismally true and... aggravating.

"Don't worry," Cedric said straightening up and looking forward, "I'll tell them too! Everyone'll need to know that _He's _back, that's rather important information I think..."

Harry paused.

"What?!"

He jerked upright in utter confusion, forgetting about his surroundings as his loud cry earned a low growl that came from Moody's bed. Cedric looked at Harry, and sat up as well, again with the same, almost excited, expression; he grabbed Harry's hand, and held it as if in mid-handshake.

"Harry, I don't know if I was a spirit or even if I was corporeal or an illusion, but I was there too! I saw him too. I'm not leaving you alone on this, people need to know!"

"You don't even know what you're inviting!" Harry said, barely whispering, "Besides you're going to tell them you saw him as a ghost? They'll think you're even _madder _than I am!"

"Counterpoint. It's too late! I've made up my mind, I can't leave you alone!" said Cedric, earnestly. Harry sighed, unable to keep away a small smile from his face.

"You've just survived Voldemort, and now you want to be paraded in the Prophet?!" he said, incredulous.

"Yes! Because it _matters_, and this is important! Besides," Cedric smiled, the light changing in his eyes, "I can't let half of the Triwizard Champions fizzle out of public view eh-OW! Okay, I was joking about that but I am, really serious mate-"

Cedric rubbed at where Harry had smacked his head sharply, not enough to hurt, but enough to startle him; and yet he couldn't help but muffle some more laughter behind his hand.

Unbeknownst to him, Harry felt glad.

At that moment where their fingers touched, when Cedric said he'd tell the world too, Harry sighed in relief; as if the entire time he had been the one holding his breath, his entire body framed in anxiety and anticipation of how many more would shun him, and how much more it would have to hurt inside before his bones could ever think about healing. He felt the tension release, and it was almost like the world seemed a little more hopeful, a little brighter, with the fact that Cedric was on his side.

"Thank you," Harry whispered, interrupting the stream of apologies. Cedric felt Harry's hand squeeze his own, "Thank you, Cedric."

Cedric smiled as if Harry said something silly.

"I should be thanking you, Harry, seriously—" Cedric replied, his voice low and soft, he squeezed Harry's hand back. "Thank you for bringing me, us, home."

"We brought ourselves home," Harry declared. He watched Cedric smile, his grey eyes warm in the cold moonlight.

"We?" Cedric laughed, "But I was unconscious!"

"You saved me in the graveyard!" Harry blurted immediately, the awkwardness, his guard now gone. Cedric stared at him, a little stunned.

"Your spirit or, whatever your presence was that night, it er... gave me hope... when I was fighting. It.. It helped me keep going." Harry said, his face strangely red as he spoke quickly.

"I know that you have questions, and that I probably can't answer them. And this is gonna be hard road right?"

"Right."

"But we'll figure it out yeah? Just like we did in the graveyard, kind of..." Cedric broke into a huge grin.

"Yeah, we'll figure it out. Either way though, I am happy to be of service, even when I'm unconscious!" Cedric proclaimed proudly, and so loudly did he speak that Moody shouted a sharp and angry"QUIET!" as if he was actually awake and had been disturbed.

Shocked by the noise, Cedric and Harry became even more panicked when the sound of Madame Pomfrey's quick footsteps echoed in the hallway, heading towards them. As Cedric dashed away to his own bed, Harry fell apart and stifled his giggles into his pillow.

It was the first time that he's laughed in three days.


	3. Welcome

"Look it's him…"

"Oooh, the Chosen One?"

"Do you really think he saw, You-Know-Who?"

"No way! He knew he couldn't win, so he probably knocked Diggory out with a charm before grabbing the Cup!"

Harry glanced up, a stream of muffled laughter and snickers thrown in his direction.

"Shh! The _chosen one_ heard us! Better stay out of his way else we end up like Diggory!"

What were the swear words that Ron would always say?  
_Merlin's beard? Merlin's pants?_

"Ugh, bleed your hearts out elsewhere, y'ninnies!" Harry heard a voice yell out. He felt an arm slung around his shoulders, connecting him to particularly tall red-head who flashed his middle-finger to the shocked group of gossiping fourth-years.

"Fred!" Harry said, breaking into a surprised smile.

"Aren't you lot just mad that you lost your bets?" another voice taunted, and this time it was George who had wrapped his arm around Harry, laughing as the fourth-years scurried away in a huff; the twins shouting some more loud insults—"_Dung brains!", "Beetle beards!", "Second-class banshees!"_—until they all disappeared around the corner.

"Don't mind them Harry," Fred said as they moved through the hallway.

"They're just a bunch of idiots, idiots!" George chimed in, waving away at people walking through the hallway like flies. Harry grinned and let Fred and George pull him along the corridor, talking about their confiscated earnings from the tournament and laughing as they caught up with the few weeks he had spent in the infirmary. Eventually they swung into the Great Hall—just in time for breakfast—as Harry quietly tuned out of the conversation and kept his eyes peeled for heads of his friends.

It wasn't long before he heard an excited "_Harry!", _and an amazed Hermione stood up from her table, sprinting toward him with her hair tumbling from her bun. The twins loosened their arms around Harry's shoulders and in replacement, Hermione had clamped hers around his neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. Harry laughed and swung her around;

"It's good to see you, Hermione!" he said, stepping from side to side. From the corner of his eye, he saw Ron run up as well, before he soon collided into them and turned it into a group hug.

"You alright mate?" Harry asked, he felt Ron's hand press against the back of his head as if Ron was making sure that he was really there.

"Alright," Ron grinned a lopsided smile, "you?"

Harry laughed, "Better now!" he said.

From the left Harry heard a sudden and joyous roar, while a flurry of yellow and black neckties and scarves bounded towards the end of the Hufflepuff table; welcoming an, also, recovered and returned Cedric. Some girls cried and laughed while the boys clapped him on the back; some first-years had lined up, begging to be told something, anything, from what happened in the last trial. As Harry stared, he couldn't really hear the twin's comments about competing for a bigger welcome; he was too engrossed in the scene in front of him, of how lively Cedric's surroundings was.

Just before their release, the press had come for a statement from Cedric, who had loudly and boldly proclaimed that Voldemort had returned. From within his curtained off bed, Harry heard Amos Diggory cough and sputter, while some reporters exclaimed in revelation.

"But, Mr Diggory! Weren't you-?"

"Unconscious? Yes, you're right. But I believe him, I believe Harry Potter." Cedric said. Harry could feel his ears burning as Cedric went on to tell the story that they concocted; how he was knocked out after he saw Voldemort rise, after the ritual, and how he definitely did not have an out-of-body experience that night.

This morning, in the Great Hall, Harry could see some students note—mostly every house but Hufflepuff—gaze at Cedric with misconstrued eyes, hesitant expressions. It was an expression that he been used to being object of, this entire year.

There were newspapers in their hands and many more copies scattered throughout the tables. The owls had dropped a new edition of the Prophet that morning, headlined with the The Boys Who Lied and featuring two separate photos of Cedric and Harry staring at the reader from the front page.

Harry was astounded at little time it took, and as his eyes drifted back to Cedric, who looked up back at him.

As if knowing, Cedric quickly picked up a nearby newspaper and pointed to its front page, a cheerful smile spread across his face as he mouthed "Look it's us!".

Harry responded with a grin and a re-affirming nod, much to Ron and Hermione's bewilderment.

"Oh! Did you two get close? In the infirmary?" Ron asked.

"Yeah, a little bit," Harry replied.

"Don't worry Ron, even if they've teamed up, Harry will still be your best-friend." Hermione giggled. Ron rolled his eyes, while Harry laughed as well.

But it was true, Harry was in this with Cedric now. There was fleeting but warm sense in his chest, that thought maybe, maybe, it wouldn't be so bad being together.

But he wouldn't be able to give it more time as suddenly there was a startling bellow of cheers and shouts, Harry swinging around to meet the storm of joy and celebration that Fred and George whipped up, complete with confetti and fake fireworks that set off and dazzled the Great Hall—much to Snape's distaste and McGonagall's apprehension—Soon, Harry was swept up in a tide of Gryffindors, who bowled him over with hugs and cries of "_Congratulations!"_

Lifted up and placed on Fred's shoulders, Harry looked over to Cedric, who laughed hysterically at his rigid bewilderment. In this moment, it didn't matter whether anyone believed Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory or not. It didn't matter who won, or what who said. Hogwarts, Beauxbatons and Durmstrang student's didn't care and nor did the teachers, and faculty who could only sip their morning tea, sighing in resignation at the upheaval of ruckus in front of them.

Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory survived the Triwizard Tournament. Beyond that, they survived the graveyard, they survived Voldemort.

They were—quite simply, quite gladly—alive.

"I still can't believe you just _gave _away the money!" Ron exclaimed, swinging his suit-case up onto the luggage rack.

"Well the Diggorys' wouldn't accept it," Harry shrugged.

"But who'd you even give it to? "

"It's—was—his money Ron," Hermione said, closing the carriage door, "Whoever it was, maybe they'll do something good with it, who knows?"

Ron shook his head. "If someone does something good with _that much _money instead of another than a trip around the world… well this has definitely been the strangest year so far!"

"It's still definitely up there," Harry laughed, looking outside the window. He gave a small sigh, "What a year."

Ron and Hermione paused and looked over at each-other. There was too much weight resting behind that sentence. In their friendship, there was little that these three did not tell each-other, but this time Harry was too eager to forget about what happened at the graveyard—Ron and Hermione, too afraid to push beyond the fact that Voldemort was back. There was a small chance to ask now, Harry didn't notice the sudden silence that settled in the train cart. Ron nudged Hermione and tilted his head towards Harry, but before Hermione could say anything; their carriage door slid open, and the trio found a casually-dressed Cedric standing in the doorway.

"Er, hello!" Cedric smiled, closing the door behind him.

"Oh, hi!" Ron said. He stood up and awkwardly bowed before Hermione quickly pulled him away, apologizing and fervently bowing as well despite herself. They glanced between Harry— who seemed too wide-eyed to speak—and (the) Cedric Diggory, who seemed anxious to state his business. Ron hastily cleared his throat and moved towards the door.

"Well you know what," he said, "Hermione and I, we were actually just about to go!"

"Huh?" Hermione stared at him, confused.

"Yeah, didn't you say that, uh, you wanted to try out those new lollies on the ladies cart?"

"I—oh... oh yes!" Hermione said, nodding along with Ron. She stood up and edged towards the doorway, a smile plastered on her face.

"We'll be right back, Harry! Nice seeing you Diggory," Ron said as casually as he could. Unfortunately while he walked out, he tripped and stumbled down the train hallway which left Hermione to sigh, wave with a sudden burst of cheeriness and promptly slammed the door shut.

Cedric and Harry looked at each-other.

"Well..." Cedric said, looking down, "I uh, I hope I didn't scare them off or.. anything."

Harry laughed nervously.

"Were you guys in the middle of something?" Cedric asked, sitting down.

"No, no. We were just, er, talking about the year..." Harry leaned closer to Cedric and in a quiet voice changed the topic, "Is there something wrong?"

Cedric blinked once, before breaking into small laughter. He leaned back into the seat, crossed his arms, and asked "Does there _have _to be something wrong, for me to talk to you?"

Harry shook his head sheepishly, "No no! Not at all! I just assumed—sorry."

Cedric smiled and took out a piece of folded parchment from his back pocket, giving it for Harry to read. From the messy handwriting, Harry could just make out a...

Well that's puzzling.

"Is this… your _address?"_ he asked. Now it was Cedric's turn to be sheepish, his eyes having wandered and stuck to looking outside the window, avoiding Harry.

"Yeah! I, uh, thought that, if you needed someone to talk to... Er...I know that I didn't really do anything, and that, what I went through was nothing compared to what you did but ...um..."

"I can write and talk to you?" Harry finished his sentence. Cedric glanced at him and flashed an embarrassed but brilliant smile,

"Yeah. Yes exactly... Anytime."

Harry folded the paper. In the last few weeks, his head had been full of the nightmares in the graveyard. His life dedicated to long hours of self-forced insomnia, and on the days he did sleep; the sweaty and dirty feeling he woke up in the morning, the nausea and dread, all clung to him afterward. It killed him to keep it underneath, to tell no one, not even Ron, Hermione, or even Dumbledore. Too gritty were the details, too real was the night, and too lonely did Harry become in the process; he thought it would be his new reality.

"Well, thank you, Cedric." he said quietly. Unable to turn his head, Cedric clenched his fist.

"Was this, er, a dumb idea?" he asked quietly, still looking at the window. He felt Harry lightly slap his knee, forcing him to turn and look forward.

Harry grinned. His face and body relaxed and lit up with a sort-of glad warmth and brightness that Cedric hadn't seen before. He could hear and see Harry saying something, something about how he "appreciated this" and "how it's nice to have someone who was there to talk to..." but it all faded when Cedric saw Harry's eyes, how they caught the green slopes and glassy water reflected from the train's window. He watched as sunlight danced from his glasses to his irises, how when he smiled they turned into crescents, his cheeks, full. And as Cedric stared and stared and stared, focused yet distracted, he stopped... he couldn't— he just,

"Wow," Cedric breathed.

"Yeah I know," Harry shook his head, none the wiser, "Ron and Hermione are basically my only wizard friends. I only know stuff about our world when they mention it in their letters,"

Still distracted, Cedric nodded and tried to prop his head on his elbow, forgetting that his elbow didn't have anything to lean on. The shift of weight threw his body forward, and propelled him into a rough collision with the floor.

"Are-! Are you okay?!" Shocked, Harry knelt down and offered his hand. Cedric took it but in his dumb daze, soon broke down into a mess of snorts and giggles, which made Harry only struggle more to get him up from floor properly.

"What a champion I am!" Cedric remarked, contagious in between laughter, and despite himself Harry crumbled to it as well; breaking into his own bubble of chuckles.

"Pen pals then? Dare I say, _friends?"_ Cedric said.

"Friends," Harry nodded, "We're already on first name basis right?"

"Oh right," Cedric said, smiling wider as Harry laughed at him.

"By the way Cedric, are you alright? You kinda look like a.. er.. tomato?"

"Oh I—"

Suddenly the door opened and Cho burst in, still in her uniform. Realizing that he had still held onto Harry's hand, Cedric snatched his away.

"Oh, sorry Harry!" Cho said, surprised by his presence. "Your friends were outside, saying that Cedric was here so..." as she glanced behind her, Hermione and Ron popped out, waving meekly. Cho looked back to Cedric and Harry, and blinked.

"Um Cedric, why are you on the floor?" she asked, puzzled.

Ron and Hermione peeked at the sight of Cedric kneeling in front of Harry, not quite knowing exactly _what_, to make of it. Swiftly Cedric stood up, his nape, ears and cheeks still flushed.

"Just a little stumble," Harry chuckled, gesturing at him. Cedric's ears went an even deeper shade of red. He swiftly patted Harry's shoulders, mumbling an "Er, yeah, so just owl me whenever you want," before quickly saying goodbye to him and his friends and following Cho out. When they disappeared down the hallway, Hermione and Ron rushed in, their arms filled with sweets; swiftly shutting the door behind them.

As soon the lollies were spilled onto the seat, Hermione made an indignant cry, "Uh just saying! We swear we weren't spying on you, I promise!"

Harry, who had shoved a gobsmacker in his mouth, strangled out a muffled and bemused "What?" while Ron yelled "Hermione!" in disbelief.

"I heard something about owling though? What was that about?" she urged, changing the topic.

"He just gave me his address. So I can write to him." Harry said, showing them the paper that Cedric had given. Something flickered in his friend's faces before Ron let out a quick "Oh so it's just that?" while Hermione nodded and started to open a box of chocolate.

"Something wrong?" Harry asked.

"Nothing mate, it's just- I don't know, that's a little unexpected, right?" Ron said.

"A little bit, I suppose." Harry shrugged. A brief moment of silence rest before Hermione sighed and threw her arms around the boys, making them all slump into the back of the carriage seats.

"Don't worry, I'm not gonna steal him from you, Hermione." Harry teased, soon regretting it as Hermione threw a fistful of candy at his face. Ron howled with laughter. The cart became as noisy as it had always been, the trio talking about what this summer would be like and making the promise to owl each other every week. Harry slipped the piece of paper into his back pocket.

He hoped that summer would be interesting.


	4. Feels Like Summer

Suffice to say, summer, was not interesting.

Sitting on a swing, Harry stared holes into the Daily Prophet, mind blank and eyesight focusing so much onto the lines of barely legible font, that each of the moving photos and words drifted into waves that soon became blurry and irrelevant.

Truth be told, Harry didn't know why he had become obsessed, reading the Prophet everyday. There was no new news. Nothing about Death Eaters or Voldemort or even about the Triwizard Tournament finale, the freak fiasco that filled the entirety of every paper, pamphlet and magazines opinion columns. Seemingly, the wizarding world had moved on from last year's chaos, with only the occasional snide remarks about Harry and Cedric occupying the Prophets ink budget; at least from what Harry could get, as he skimmed and flicked through pages and pages of the editions from the last few weeks.

He sighed and let the newspaper fall, his feet lifting off ever so slightly from the ground so that he could rock back and forth.

In all honesty, it was a bit of a relief to fade into irrelevance. If the Wizarding World was stable and okay, so be it; Harry wanted nothing else. From sitting under the Dursley's front window and tuning into the morning/evening news and Uncle Vernon's newspaper rants, Harry was glad that nothing weird was happening. No catastrophic tragedies or eerie mysteries. Nothing that reeked so much of dark magic and Voldemort that it reached even Muggle ears. And in the same way while the Prophet was selective in its choice of material, the paper never reported on any strange(r) happenings other than Ministry decisions and promotions, the invention of a new cleaning spell and the marriage of a fox and a frog.

To put it simply, there was nothing wrong. The world, both of them, seemed utterly and ultimately benign. And yet, it was the disconnection that troubled Harry the most.

He sent letters. Many of them in fact.

But there was never a constant or even consistent stream of replies clutched in Hedwig's talon when she came back. Usually when he found Hedwig perching on his window, if he was lucky, there would also be owls carrying letters from his best friends, Ron and Hermione, though any expectations he had had that their letters would bring him news had long since been dashed. _"We can't say much about you-know-what, obviously..." "We've been told not to say anything important in case our letters go astray..." "We're quite busy but I can't give you details here..." "There's a fair amount going on, we'll tell you everything when we see you..."_

But when were they going to see him? Nobody seemed too bothered with a precise date. Hermione had scribbled, _"I expect we'll be seeing you quite soon"_ inside his birthday card, but how soon is _soon?_ As far as Harry could tell from the vague hints in their letters, Hermione and Ron were in the same place, presumably at Ron's parents' house.

It was maddening to think about how much more fun he could be having, if he got out Little Whinging. Away from Uncle Vernon's watchful eyes, Aunt Petunia's venomous expressions and (just in general) Dudley.

And what were Ron and Hermione busy with? Why wasn't he, Harry, busy? Hadn't he proved himself capable of handling much more than they? Had they all forgotten what he had done? Hadn't it been he who had entered that graveyard and seemingly watched Cedric being murdered and been tied to that tombstone and nearly killed...?

Harry leapt up from the swing, and kicked at the playground bark, sending it soaring over the seesaw. The injustice of it all welled up inside him so that he wanted to yell with fury. If it hadn't been for him, nobody would even have known Voldemort was back! And his reward was to be stuck in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, completely cut off from the magical world, reduced to squatting among dying begonias so that he could hear about water-skiing budgerigars!  
How could Dumbledore have forgotten him so easily? Why had Ron and Hermione got together without inviting him along too? How much longer was he supposed to endure Sirius telling him to sit tight and be a good boy; or resist the temptation to write to the stupid Daily Prophet and point out that Voldemort had returned?

Harry sighed. He felt too frustrated and discontent, childish and insignificant all at the same time.

Again it, and he felt, just too much.  
Sitting back on the swing, Harry stared at his hands, his eyes focusing on the creases and lines; the tiny scars, wand and quill grooves that made their mark on his fingers and palms. In contrast to the sky above him, vastly bright and smoothly blue, wholly limitless.. He was nothing but full of complexity, of churning emotions and tangled strings of an uncertain reality.

For now, the only solace Harry had, was Cedric Diggory.

Honestly, Harry didn't expect the older boy to make good on his promise, or at least, he thought that Cedric would send one obligatory letter during the holidays and himself the same. But these days, Harry can't help but look forward to the sound of Hedwig returning from her flights, having made sure to leave the window wide, wide open these past few days for when she came back.

Hedwig delivered mail everyday due to his subscription to the Daily Prophet but on Monday, Wednesday and Sunday's, alongside the rolled up newspaper, a white crinkly envelope would accompany it; full of scrawled writings that Harry had eventually learned to translate and interpret into actual words.

Each letter was detailed, spanning two to four pages, talking about what was going on with the Ministry and all the rumors and talk that wasn't, or couldn't, be published onto any legitimate paper. To be honest, there wasn't much, and no validating basis or grounds to most of what Cedric relayed but—it was enough for Harry to just be kept in loop, just like any ordinary wizard.

After establishing the second week of letters with the lines of "Dear Harry, there are no changes today," Cedric had gotten into the habit of describing his holiday, something that Harry actually grown to enjoy reading as well.

To be truthful, Cedric's handwriting is just... horrid. But his letters were like vivid paintings, transporting Harry to envision every little detail, like another magic moving picture.

Harry could imagine Cedric running through a field and trying to recapture a lost pet rabbit that hopped over its den; he could imagine Cedric's father, Amos, tripping and falling into a lake while they fished. He could see Cedric climbing a tall tree and taking blurry photos as the sun set, and could see him hunched on top of a sand dune—his breath turning into mist as he waited in the dewy morning to turn from sun-kissed reds and oranges to a misty blue. Strangely, and adding to Harry's little daydreams, the letters smelt like the places Cedric described—like seawater or freshly mowed grass or even black tea and ground coffee beans. In his hands, Harry held places and parts of the world he's yet to see and while it felt a little lonely; it still filled him up, with something bright and sparkling inside. It was so nice to just escape his room in Privet Drive, even for moment. But there can only be so many things that could be easily escaped or solved, through pretty words on nice-smelling paper, (sadly).

In his replies, Harry couldn't describe the same amazingly normal things that Cedric was doing (though Cedric still loved and anticipated Muggle life). His letters were more simple, talking about Dudley's antics, and the things he'd find or see in his evening strolls. Sometimes Harry would briefly—just briefly—touch on the nightmares he's been having. Twisted dreams where he was back in the graveyard, with the sense of dirt and gritty grim darkness seeping through the landscape. Harry didn't really tell Cedric that he was having nightmares, or that they were specific dreams about that night. But all he ever needed to say was "I had a bad dream again" , and Cedric, could easily read into the weight of those words.

The first time Harry mentioned his dreams, Cedric had sent him bunched daisies tied with string, along with instructions to boil them into chamomile tea. On that day, Petunia and Vernon were initially and still mystified by Harry's use of the kettle, while Dudley still made fun of Harry for carrying flowers in the house. But Harry couldn't care any less. From then on, his nights were relatively quiet and the dreams, while they still happened, no longer woke him up in cold sweat; making it easier to forget them the next morning.

Cedric would talk about nightmares too. He apparently kept seeing the same one over and over again, sometimes unable to force himself to sleep, dreading the scents and imagery that he'd re-live each night. When consulting Hermione about a way to relax, Harry could hear her chiding voice as she wrote an entire paragraph on first-year potions and self-care, "Harry, even in the Muggle world, people know that the scent of flowers and lavender help people relax!" she said. (It was the longest response he'd gotten out of her, this summer).

So from then on, Harry would pick and send two spruces, with three sticks of incense from Mrs Figg's kind donations. And so, Cedric's letters began to smell like both his travels and a hint of crushed lavender.

Honestly it was a strange exchange. And even now, Harry blushed thinking about how it looked out-of-context.

Two people sending each other handwritten letters, with flowers and incense? Never mind the fact that they were also both an odd pair in their world, dubbed the Boys Who Lied.

But at his core, Harry really didn't mind. Maybe it was because of Ron and Hermione's absence, maybe he felt stronger, more emotional than usual, but Harry was glad to be friends with Cedric; even if they were, bonded by unsavory circumstances.

As he smiled, Harry did not know how long he had sat on the swing before the sound of voices interrupted his musings and he looked up. One of them was singing a loud, crude song. The others were laughing. A soft ticking noise came from several expensive racing bikes that they were wheeling along. Harry knew who those people were. The figure in front was unmistakably his cousin, Dudley Dursley, wending his way home, accompanied by his faithful gang.

Something in Harry flickered.  
_If Dudley's crew notices me, there'll definitely be a fight_, and he was all too ready for it. Knowing Dudley, he would be too afraid to start it, but his other mates… they have _no idea_. Maybe Harry could vent his lingering frustration out, if only they would notice him.

If only.

But as soon as he had the thought, the crudely sung notes and the low, hollering voices calling out to Dudley as _"Big D"_ would fade; the boys on their bikes disappearing as they turned around the corner.

Disappointed, Harry shook his head, recounting his promise to Molly and Sirius about laying low —though the latter wouldn't be disappointed, exactly, if he drew out his wand—

Harry picked up the Prophet and left the swing-set, trailing after Dudley's gang and catching up to his cousin just after all his friends biked off.

Dudley flinched and grunted as Harry waved a cheery _"Hello!"_; their relationship was ever limited and tense since Harry had blown up Aunt Marjorie all those years ago.

It was just the way he liked.

"So who've you been beating up tonight?" he asked, his grin fading, "Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights ago —"

"He was asking for it," snarled Dudley.

"Oh yeah?"

"He cheeked me."

"Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that's been taught to walk on its hind legs? 'Cause that's not cheek, Dud, that's true…"

This exchange, with Dudley's fists curled and jaw clenched and Harry's skippy walk and light-hearted demeanour continued as they walked back home. Turning into the tunnel, none of them noticed how the once blue sky clouded over, a low rumble threatening beyond the horizon.

Harry rubbed his arms, suddenly cold, but didn't mind how the lights in the tunnel flickered. Something felt wrong but Dudley had said something that flared not only Harry's rage, but also some sort of fear that webbed inside his stomach. With his wand out, and Dudley circling him uneasily, none of them would notice the wisps of floating black cloth that would soon entwine around their bodies; and how behind the corner, two hooded horrors called Dementors watched, waiting for one moment, where they could swoop in and eventually dement poor, poor Dudley.

Harry slammed the door, his breathing shallow and fast, sweat from a raging heart dripping down his nape.

_I've just been attacked by Dementors and I might be expelled from Hogwarts._

Harry copied these words onto four separate pieces of parchment the moment he reached the desk in his dark bedroom. He made quick, thick strokes against the parchments, addressing the first to Sirius, second to Ron, third to Hermione and the final fourth to Cedric. His mind was still spinning. The strange presence and encounter of two Dementors in Little Whinging, the old, cat-obsessed Mrs Figgs' revealed identity as an undercover wizard AND the screeching fury of Aunt Petunia's howler all muddling up and melding into an amalgamation of psychological slish-slosh and goop in his head. Aching from carrying Dudley home and ears still ringing from his fight with Petunia and Vernon, Harry had hardly any time to breathe, let alone process the string of events from the last two hours.

Up and down he paced, consumed with anger and frustration, grinding his teeth and clenching his fists, casting angry looks out at the empty, star-strewn sky every time he passed the window. Dementors sent to get him, Mrs. Figg and Mundungus Fletcher tailing him in secret, then suspension from Hogwarts and a hearing at the Ministry of Magic — and still no one was telling him what was going on. Why was he still trapped here without information? Why was everyone treating him like some naughty kid? _Don't do any more magic, stay in the house. . . ._

Harry could still hear his aunt and uncle fussing over Dudley downstairs as he opened his window, and sent Hedwig off with his letters, hoping for at least one decently-sized reply of the situation.

_They were bound to write back quickly right?_

They couldn't possibly ignore a dementor attack.

Harry didn't know what else to do, he felt so sick and dizzy that he just fell into his bed, burying himself in his blankets and sheets. Maybe he would wake up tomorrow to four fat letters full of sympathy and three with the plans to immediately remove him to the Burrow.

Maybe.

And comforted with the idea, sleep rolled over him, stifling all further thought.


	5. Dear Cedric

Hermione gasped. She stared down at Harry's letter, clutching her chest as if in pain.  
In the dim light of the kitchen, Mrs Weasley looked up curiously from her daily horoscope while Ron walked closer to her, struggling to open his own envelope with a blunt butter knife.

"What is it?" he asked, "Is Harry still angry?"

"He was attacked.. by—by, Dementors!"

Startled, Ron dropped the knife which clattered on the kitchen floor and stumbled over to Hermione; reading aloud over her shoulder, his voice growing in volume and shock,

"He's... expelled?!" he exclaimed disbelievingly.

"They can't do that! He was just defending himself, right Dad?" Ron said, just as Arthur Weasley walked through the dining-room door.

"Eh?"

Hermione handed Mr Weasley the letter, which he quickly scanned before bellowing "SIRIUS!" at the top of his lungs. Above them, the floorboards creaked and dust filtered down, footsteps making their way across to the stairs. Mr Weasley returned Hermione's letter and straightened his posture, shaking off his earlier morning drowsiness.

"Don't worry," he said, rushing towards Hedwig, who preened herself on the windowsill, "We'll have this entire situation completely handled!"

Ron's eyes widened, "You already knew?"

"Well..y-yes, as soon as we caught wind of it, I sent a letter reassuring Harry tha-"

"Mr Weasley!" Hermione cried, before Ron could even burst out, "Is Harry safe? Is he okay?!"

"Harry is _safe_. We're just waiting for Dumbledore's signal, and we'll bring him straight here, I promise." he said gently. Sirius appeared at the doorway, tossing a coat as Mr Weasley turned around.

Despite being told of their friend's safety, Hermione and Ron couldn't help the churn of violent unease and guilt stabbing at their stomachs. Mrs Weasley rose from her seat and wrapped her arms around them in a warm embrace.

"Don't worry, dears," she said, "Harry can take care of himself, and Dumbledore will sort out all this 'expelling' business. Right Arthur? Sirius?" Mr Weasley smiled and Sirius winked in response, before they stepped out into the hallway.

"Where are you two going?" Hermione asked, following them.

"Protection," Sirius said grimly, "Harry has obviously sent these to those closest to him. And if anyone intercepts this… well who knows what might happen to them, if even our prison guards are under Voldemort's influence."

"Yes, Hedwig was supposed to deliver another letter, probably with the same content as yours, to a..." Mr Weasley took out an envelope and squinted at the writing, "Cebric Piggory."

"You mean Cedric Diggory?" Ron asked.

Mr Weasley looked down and read the envelope again, before he doubled back with wide eyes; "Cedric Diggory?!" he exclaimed.

"Something wrong?" asked Sirius.

"It's the other boy, from the Triwizard Tournament. The other Hogwarts Champion,"

"What's so bad about Harry writing to him?" Ron said, crossing his arms.

"It's not _him_, it's his father," Mr Weasley sighed, glancing at his equally worried wife, "Oh dear. Amos will not be happy."

Cedric jolted awake, breathing hard and fast like he had just been choking; his shirt was stained with sweat, his hair slicked against his face and hands trembling in such a fragile way, that even Cedric himself was terrified that he'd break. As he blinked, he realized that his eyes were too bleary, smothering the room in a strange blur of colors and light, and there was a deep uncomfortable sensation that clung around his chest, unable to be wished away. Cedric could only hug his knees and close his eyes, pretending that he wasn't really real, and neither was this.. feeling that swallowed up his entire being.

It was difficult with all the trembling, but he let himself rock slightly forward and back, keeping his knees tight against his chest. Cedric tried to focus on breathing, just like Harry said in his letters, and tried to imagine how his chest rose and deflated as he breathed,

1,

2,

3.

In a few seconds, the smell of lavender slowly drifted by, wrapping around his head and lulling him to relax. Cedric let his knees and arms drop and opened his eyes, feeling his body slowly calmed down and became more comfortable, adjusting to the room while his vision sharpened; adjusting to the sensation of sweat and the unbridled heat and dizziness that came with consciousness. He looked over to his bedside table and turned off his lamp, spending just a few seconds more, to watch as fire claimed his last stick of incense—it's trail of smoke spiraling and dancing upwards until it became no more.

_Ready now_, he felt, the thought clear in his head. He could feel himself breath a little easier. Cedric opened the curtains, slightly disappointed to see that Hedwig hadn't arrived yet. But he assumed his letter would come later today and moved on. Cedric then changed from his sweaty shirt, opened his bedroom door and descended down the stairs.

Closer to the bottom, he stopped, hearing the muffled sounds of an argument breaking out in the kitchen.

"I don't want any danger, you hear me?! None!"

"He will be in more danger if he stays, Amos! Old friend, you can't control—"

"He's just a boy!"

"A boy who, legally, can make his own decisions! Just _let _him decide."

There was silence. Then a bit more talk, but now too quiet for Cedric to hear. Soon all conversation stopped, and a few clinks of cups and plates cued Cedric to, as nonchalantly he could act, walk in.

"Good morning!" he said with as much cheer as he could muster, startling his parents.

"Good morning, sweetheart," his mother smiled. Cedric noticed how tight it was. She seemed tired.

"Good morning, son," his father said, avoiding eye-contact. Strange.

Usually he would've been hugged by now.

As Cedric sat down, his mother nudged her husband with her elbow, prompting him to reluctantly reach into his pockets and hand Cedric, a letter over the dinner table.

"Er, a.. letter arrived for you today,"

Cedric took the envelope with some caution, but lit up as soon as he recognized Harry's handwriting. He quickly opened it, not even minding how light it was or his father's protests, "Son, come on now! It's family time, no books, letters or newspapers at the table!"

But as Cedric read, he couldn't fully hear his surroundings, as his hands clenched at the paper so hard that his thumbs began to turn white. He was aware of how closely his parents paid attention, observed him carefully, noticing how his face dropped and how he steeled his jaw, reading over Harry's words.

"Cedric dear, is everything alright?" his mother asked, rousing Cedric from his daze.

"Oh, yeah, yeah I- I just need a moment, hold on," Cedric folded the letter carefully and rose from the dining table, leaving his parents anxious and confused as he climbed the stairs.

Back in his room Cedric paced from wall to wall, staring at the one-lined paper in his hands.

_Dementors?_

In Harry's Muggle neighbourhood?

_Expelled?!_

Cedric's hands started to sweat as his mind whirled, trying to think of anything he could do, anything that could help. He bit his thumbnail, wishing that Harry wrote more information, wrote something, anything that could spark off an idea like…

Cedric shifted the papers to look at the envelope.  
He had Harry's address.

Quickly, he opened his closet and grabbed a knapsack, stuffing a few clothes and his wand inside.

"Cedric?" his father knocked at the door, "Are you alright?"

Cedric opened his bedroom door, surprising him in a mid-knock position.

"A-Are you're going somewhere?" his father asked.

"Yeah," Cedric replied, walking briskly past him.

"Uh, hang on!" Mr Diggory quickly followed him, "Where are you going?!"

"Harry. I'm going to go see Harry."

"Oh… OH! Wait!" Mr Diggory capered down the stairs, "You haven't even eaten breakfast! Why are you going to see Harry out of the blue?!"

"He just, really, needs some help right now. In his letter he said there were some Dementors in his neighbourhood an-"

_"Dementors?!_ Well why would you go over there?!" As Cedric whirled around to respond, his father caught his arm, holding him in place and continuing, "I'm sure that Harry's got other friends, you don't need to be the one that—"

"I can't—I can't rely on that, Dad," Cedric exasperated, "If everyone thought that, nobody'd help anyone!"

"Well.. why does it have to be _you?"_ Mr Diggory pleaded, his voice was a little loud in this sentence, his breathing a little too heavy, so much that he even surprised himself. Cedric's mother came out to the hallway, her expression worried and tense, as if she was holding her breath and his father; held onto his arm tightly, even though he still refused to look Cedric directly in his eyes.

It suddenly occurred to Cedric that maybe his parents were more affected by the last trial than he was. He took his father and mother by the hand and sat them down in the dining room again.

At the table, Cedric intertwined his fingers into one fist, his brain trying to piece together a way to speak; he didn't know how to explain it to his parents, Merlin, he couldn't even explain it to himself.

"I... need to go," Cedric finally said. And it was true, he did.

"But you don't even know how to get there, dear." His mother said.

That was also true.

Cedric didn't have money, Floo powder, or any knowledge about Harry's area to apparate. He didn't even have a clue, how to navigate Muggle transport.

"Is this something to do with You-Know-Who?" his father said, suddenly angry. Inside his head, Cedric groaned, the mention of that name bringing back the same sick feeling he woke up with this morning.

"I-I don't know." Cedric said. This only fueled his father's red face, his voice loud and heavy in the air.

"Look, it's not that we don't believe you Cedric, but if what you're saying is true... I don't want you getting anymore involved with Harry Potter! He is clearly more than capable of taking care of himself and I am—!"

"No, don't. Please, don't!" Cedric said, raising his voice and slamming his fists down onto the table, making such a horrendous sound that it frightened his father into silence. There was a moment when it was just nothing in the air. As if Cedric wasn't going to say anything at all.

"Never mind the fact, that you think I can't do anything," Cedric said in a low voice, "Never mind the fact that he saved me—that Harry brought me home to you…"

He spoke slow but tense, _trying_, with all his might; trying to be polite. Trying to curb whatever in his voice suggested otherwise but there was something intense in his posture, and his lips were set in a firm, harsh line.

Cedric looked his parents in the eye, and watched as they faltered, not out of fear but revelation; their son wasn't angry, he was just pained. They didn't need to see how his nails dug into the palms of his hands, or his knuckles against the wooden table because all his emotions, his fear and anxiety; all of them were laid out, painted right there on his face, in an expression that both hardened and made his eyes so vulnerable in the sunlight.

"He's my _friend_." Cedric said, his fingers curling further into fists, "Harry is my friend, and I can't—people think that he's fine alone, and that he can take care of himself and do well by himself but that doesn't mean that he _has _to!"

Silence followed, a thick tension that smothered the room. Inside Cedric's head, there was an ocean of words that his thoughts were drowning in, but this was enough. There were promises and unspoken things that Cedric wanted to keep, so he just reached over and clasped his mother and fathers hands, looked into their faces and saw that there was no hardness in their expressions; only lines etched by worry, confusion. He knew them well, he was sure that these same lines were also reflected on his own face. But he couldn't just leave it anymore, not like he used to.

"I don't want to just sit still and hope this will all go away," Cedric squeezed his parents hands, _"Please_, let me go. I just want to help him."

He let go of their hands and for a moment, the room was still and unmoving, and it felt as if his heart was being broadcasted; thudding and pounding heavy in the suspense.

Then, his father sighed and buried his face in his palms, while his mother quietly comforted him, rubbing up and down his arm with her hands.

"You heard him, Arthur. He—… He wants to go," Mr Diggory said, lifting his face up and looking behind him. Momentarily confused, Cedric stared into the empty air before suddenly, behind his father's chair; two figures shimmered into existence.

A large, black dog and a tall man, with ginger hair.

"I will keep him safe, Amos. I swear," The ginger-haired man said, resting his hand on Mr Diggory's back. He and the large dog went around the table and stepped closer to Cedric, thunderstruck by their presence.

"Hello there, Cedric! Arthur Weasley, remember?" The man smiled, he shook his hand vigorously, "From last year's Quidditch Cup?"

"Hi! Yes I-I remember, er... Sorry, were you there the whole time?" Cedric gripped his bag and glanced between Mr Weasley and the dog, who seemed to be eyeing him up and down.

"Entirely!" Mr Weasley nodded.

"Why...?"

"All will be explained soon Cedric, very soon! But for now, you want to help Harry, yes?" Mr Weasley asked.

"Of course!" Cedric replied.

"Well then, we shouldn't waste any more time. Come along!" Mr Weasley said, lifting his umbrella to point towards towards the door.

Cedric looked back at his parents.

"It's alright. You're... old enough now." His father said. He smiled, but it was defeated, an expression of deft, acknowledgement. Cedric crossed the dining-room and hugged his parents tightly, kissing them his apologies and goodbye.

"Arthur," his mother said, just as Cedric let go of her hand. She stared at Mr Weasley, her small stature quivering, undermined by the gravity of her gaze,

"You keep my boy safe, you hear?" she said, firmly.

Mr Weasley nodded seriously, and smiled.

"There is nowhere safer than Grimmauld Place ma'am," he said.


	6. Rescue & Happy Reunions

It had been four days.

Harry sat on his bed, left alone in the house while the Dursley's went out for a fun(?) night in town. Meanwhile his door was locked and he had eaten all the food that Petunia had pushed through the catflap of his door.

Harry had no particular feeling about the Dursleys leaving. It made no difference to him whether they were in the house or not. Also, he was no longer as angry as he was in the first three days that had been absent of replies or news from his friends. (Even Cedric missed his annual Wednesday letter).  
No, now he was just exhaustedly sad.

He could not even summon the energy to get up and turn on his bedroom light. The room grew steadily darker around him as he lay listening to the night sounds through the window he kept open all the time, waiting for the blessed moment when Hedwig would return. The empty house creaked around him. The pipes gurgled. Harry lay there in a kind of stupor, thinking of nothing, suspended in misery.

And then, quite distinctly, he heard a crash in the kitchen below. He sat bolt upright, listening intently. The Dursleys couldn't be back, it was much too soon, and in any case he hadn't heard their car. There was silence for a few seconds, and then he heard voices. Burglars, he thought, sliding off the bed onto his feet—but a split second later it occurred to him that burglars would keep their voices down, and whoever was moving around in the kitchen was certainly not troubling to do so.

As he made his way downstairs, with his wand out, his heart shot up his throat. There were people standing in the shadowy hall below, silhouetted against the streetlight glowing through the glass door; eight or nine of them, all, as far as he could see, looking up at him.

"Lower your wand, boy, before you take someone's eye out," said a low, growling voice. Harry's heart was thumping uncontrollably. He knew that voice, but he did not lower his wand.

"Professor Moody?" he said uncertainly.

"I don't know so much about '_Professor,'_ " growled the voice, "Never got round to much teaching, did I? Get down here, we want to see you properly."

_Was it really him? _Harry couldn't help but question the fact, given last year's plot twist. But soon he heard a second voice, soft and gentle, coaxing him.

"It's alright, Harry. We've come to take you away," Harry's heart leapt. He knew that voice too, though he hadn't heard it for more than a year.

"P-Professor Lupin?" he said disbelievingly. "Is that you?"

"Why are we all standing in the dark?" said a third voice, this one completely unfamiliar, a woman's. "Lumos".

A wand tip flared, illuminating the hall with magical light. Harry blinked. The people below were crowded around the foot of the stairs, gazing intently up at him, some craning their heads for a better look. Remus Lupin stood nearest to him. Though still quite young, Lupin looked tired and rather ill; he had more gray hair than when Harry had said good-bye to him, and his robes were more patched and shabbier than ever. Nevertheless, he was smiling broadly at Harry, who tried to smile back through his shock.

"_Oooh_, he looks just like I thought he would," said the witch who was holding her lit wand aloft. She looked the youngest there; she had a pale heart-shaped face, dark twinkling eyes, and short spiky hair that was a violent shade of violet. "Wotcher, Harry!"

"Yeah, I see what you mean, Remus," said a bald black wizard standing farthest back; he had a deep, slow voice and wore a single gold hoop in his ear.

"He looks exactly like James."

"Except the eyes," said a wheezy-voiced, silver-haired wizard at the back.

"Lily's eyes."

Harry could hardly believe this was real.

"I'm—you're really lucky the Dursleys are out . . ." he mumbled.

"Lucky, _ha!" _said the violet-haired woman. "It was me that lured them out of the way. Sent a letter by Muggle post telling them they'd been short-listed for the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. They're heading off to the prize-giving right now. . . . Or they think they are."

Harry had a fleeting vision of Uncle Vernon's face when he realized there was no All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition. He stifled a giggle.

"We are leaving, aren't we?" he asked breathlessly. "Soon?"

"Almost at once," said Lupin, "We're just waiting for the all-clear."

"Where are we going? The Burrow?" Harry asked hopefully.

"Not the Burrow, no," said Lupin, motioning Harry toward the kitchen; the little knot of wizards followed, all still eyeing Harry curiously. "Too risky. We've set up headquarters somewhere undetectable."

Harry couldn't help but breathe out and laugh quietly in relief. Four weeks with nothing, not the tiniest hint of a plan to remove him from Privet Drive, and suddenly a whole bunch of wizards were standing matter-of-factly in the house as though this were a long-standing arrangement. He glanced at the people surrounding Lupin; they were still gazing avidly at him. He felt very conscious of the fact that he had not combed his hair for four days.

Patting down his hair, Harry scratched his neck and shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I can't wait," he grinned. Lupin smiled his old and playful smile. The violet-haired woman clapped her hands and excitedly and even Moody grunts in approval.

"Well then," Lupin says "let's go get ready to head off!"

Wind-beaten and still exhilarated from their flight to London, Harry stumbled down the hallway, marvelling the set of portraits that hung on the wall. Behind him Moody, Tonks, Lupin and Kingsley Shacklebolt whispered to keep moving forward, through a dimly lit hallway. As he crept forward, Harry could feel eyes staring down at him despite the portraits already blackened by age and his rescuers, too busy talking amongst themselves to even glance his way.

Harry decided that he didn't like the way he felt in the hallway. Everything about it, the peeling wallpaper, the cobwebbed chandelier, the smell and glow of the gas lamps, and how the others' hushed voices gave an odd feeling of foreboding; like they had just entered the house of a dying person - all of that multiplied and lingered like a bad smell, threading in and out of his head and stomach. It was only when Mrs Weasley walked frantically towards Harry, was he able to relax; letting himself be pulled into her rib-cracking hug, and letting go of his Firebolt as he sank into her arms.

"Oh, Harry, it's lovely to see you!" she whispered, before holding him at arm's length and examining him critically. "You're looking peaky; you need feeding up, but you'll have to wait a bit for dinner, I'm afraid. . . ."

Harry frowned as he noticed that Mrs Weasley looked thinner and paler herself. But he didn't have any more time to think, immediately grabbed by the shoulders and pushed down the hallway, Mrs Weasley calling to the others behind him.

"The meetings just started." She said, and they all made noises of interest and excitement and began filing past Harry toward the door through which Mrs. Weasley had just come; Harry made to follow Lupin, but Mrs. Weasley held him back.

"No, Harry, the meeting's only for members of the Order. Ron and Hermione are upstairs, you can wait with them until the meeting's over and then we'll have dinner." She said, pushing him toward the stairs. Harry had never felt this amount of force from Mrs Weasley - except for when she insisted that he have seconds during dinner - so he obediently climbed the steps and let her show him his room.

As they walked up, Harry took the time to take in the full majesty of this strange and gloomy house, dusty, old and cramped; but otherwise gorgeously elegant in design. If Harry wasn't looking, he wouldn't have the faintest idea that Grimmauld Place was a wizard's home, but with the display of moving figures in picture frames, a plaque of shrunken elf heads, and a ten-centimeter hovering side-table that looked a severed giant's leg; Harry only wondered whether all wizarding homes were as eccentric as this, or whether this house in particular was one brilliant exception.

When he had reached the front door of his bedroom at last, it swung open by itself and Harry's neck was quickly latched onto, his face sprung by long and bushy hair.

"HARRY! Ron, he's here, Harry's here! We didn't hear you arrive! Oh, how are you? Are you alright? Have you been _furious _with us? I bet you have, I know our letters were useless—but we couldn't tell you anything, Dumbledore made us swear we wouldn't, _oh_, we've got so much to tell you, and you've got to tell us—the dementors! When we heard—and that Ministry hearing—it's just _outrageous_, I've looked it all up, they _can't _expel you, they just can't! There's provision in the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Sorcery for the use of magic in life-threatening situations—"

Harry could only pat Hermione and try and calm her down as she spoke in a quick-fire, rapid pace, while he strained his eyes to see past a hair-obscured vision.

It seemed that he was in a high-ceilinged and twin-bedded room, already lit up and Weasley-decorated with bright red and orange lamp-light, curtains, beddings and Chudley posters. A sharp contrast from the green and black house.

"Let him _breathe_, Hermione," said Ron, who pulled her away from Harry, and aptly closed the door. Before Harry could say another word, he heard the clatter of the window and saw something white, gliding towards him.

"Hedwig!" he cried, letting out his arm for her to land on. Hedwig crooned and nibbled his ear gently.

"She's been in a right state," said Ron. "Pecked us half to death when she brought your last letters, look at this—"

He showed Harry the index finger of his right hand, which sported a half-healed but clearly deep cut.

"Oh yeah," Harry said. "Sorry about that, but I wanted answers, you know. . . ."

"We wanted to give them to you, mate," said Ron. "Hermione was going mad, she kept saying you'd do something stupid if you were stuck all on your own without news, but Dumbledore made us—"

"— swear not to tell me," said Harry. "Yeah, Hermione's already said."

The warm glow that had flared inside him at the sight of his two best friends was extinguished as something icy flooded the pit of his stomach. All of a sudden—after yearning to see them for a solid month—he felt he would rather Ron and Hermione left him alone. There was a strained silence in which Harry stroked Hedwig automatically, not looking at either of the others.

"He seemed to think it was best," said Hermione rather breathlessly. "Dumbledore, I mean."

"Right," said Harry. He noticed that her hands too bore the marks of Hedwig's beak and found that he was not at all sorry.

Suddenly, Harry felt as if something cold had just drenched his body, from head to toe.

_I don't feel sorry?_

He looked at their marks again, and there nestled in his gut was a small pit of shame and guilt.

"Did you… Did you both know everything?" Harry asked. "About Mundungus following me, and stuff."

"Yes." Ron said. Harry looked at him, his gaze pinned to the floor and arms, limp but clenched in fists by his sides. "Dumbledore came to see—well, _scold _him after that stunt."

"He was so angry," said Hermione in an almost awestruck voice. "Dumbledore. We saw him. When he found out Mundungus had left before his shift had ended. He was scary."

"I see…" Harry said. He continued to stroke Hedwig, not daring to look at either Hermione or Ron. There was a monstrous amount of emotions that warped and twisted inside him; envy, disappointment, slight gladness but mostly a little twinge of anger.

_Stay calm, _Harry told himself. He walked around the room, letting Hedwig fly to the mantle of the bed.

"So why's Dumbledore been so keen to keep me in the dark?" Harry asked, still trying hard to keep his voice casual. "Did you—er—bother to ask him at all?"

He glanced up just in time to see them exchanging a look that told him he was behaving just as they had feared he would. It did nothing to improve his temper.

"We told Dumbledore we wanted to tell you what was going on," said Ron. "We did, mate. But he's really busy now, we've only seen him twice since we came here and he didn't have much time, he just made us swear not to tell you important stuff when we wrote, he said the owls might be intercepted—"

Harry scoffed, and turned to look at them. He saw how Hermione flinched as his gaze, and how Ron clenched his fists and his jaw.

It dampened his growing annoyance, but only slightly.

"Maybe he thinks I can't be trusted," said Harry, watching their expressions.

"Don't be thick," said Ron, looking highly disconcerted. Harry paused.

_Thick?_

"Of course I'm thick, Ron! I didn't know anything! I didn't know where you two were, what this place was or whatever the hell is going on; everyone chose not to tell me anything!"

"We couldn't—" Hermione tried to interrupt.

"How come I have to stay at the Dursleys' while you two get to join in everything that's going on here?" said Harry, talking over Hermione, his words tumbling over one another in a rush and voice growing louder with every word. "How come you two are allowed to know everything that's going on—?"

"We don't! We haven't been in the meetings—"

"SO YOU HAVEN'T BEEN IN THE MEETINGS, BIG DEAL! YOU'VE STILL BEEN HERE, HAVEN'T YOU? YOU'VE STILL BEEN TOGETHER! ME, I'VE BEEN STUCK AT THE DURSLEYS' FOR A MONTH! AND I'VE HANDLED MORE THAN YOU TWO'VE EVER MANAGED AND DUMBLEDORE KNOWS IT — WHO SAVED THE SORCERER'S STONE? WHO GOT RID OF RIDDLE? WHO SAVED BOTH YOUR SKINS FROM THE DEMENTORS?" Harry shouted.

Every bitter and resentful thought that he had in the past month was pouring out of him; his frustration at the lack of news, the hurt that they had all been together without him, his fury at being followed and not told about it: All the feelings he was half-ashamed of finally burst their boundaries.

"Harry, we wanted to tell you, we really did—" Hermione began.

"CAN'T'VE WANTED TO THAT MUCH, CAN YOU, OR YOU'D HAVE SENT ME AN OWL, BUT DUMBLEDORE MADE YOU _SWEAR_—" Harry made a furious groan and turned to face away from his friends, making rigid movements like he was about to claw his hair but then changed his mind to punch the bed and then changed his mind again to stomp on the floor until he ultimately did nothing in a fit of anger.

"WHO HAD TO GET PAST DRAGONS AND SPHINXES AND EVERY OTHER FOUL THING LAST YEAR? WHO SAW HIM COME BACK? WHO HAD TO ESCAPE FROM HIM? ME! FOUR WEEKS I'VE BEEN STUCK IN PRIVET DRIVE, NICKING PAPERS OUT OF BINS TO TRY AND FIND OUT WHAT'S BEEN GOING ON—"

"We _wanted _to—"

"I SUPPOSE YOU'VE BEEN HAVING A REAL LAUGH, HAVEN'T YOU, ALL HOLED UP HERE TOGETHER—"

As he whirled around, Harry stopped at the sight of Ron standing there, bracing himself; his eyes closed and mouth screwed up tight while Hermione looked on the verge of tears. Guilt and shame, and that drenched-cold feeling slapped Harry in the face again, and he just sighed in frustration; covering his eyes with his hand, for fear that something would crack inside him.

"But why should _I _know what's going on? Why should anyone bother to tell _me _what's been happening?" Harry said quietly. He didn't cry. Hermione did though, Harry could hear it in the pin-drop silence of the room. A sniffle, and then a sob choked in her throat because she was trying very hard to keep her lips closed.

It broke his heart.

_Why was he so angry?_

The floorboards creaked as Hermione rushed towards him, but then she hesitated, wary of being close enough to touch.

"We're sorry. We're so, _so _sorry Harry," she said desperately. "You're absolutely right—I'd be furious if it was me!"

Harry let his hand drop from his eyes and watched as she tried to wipe her nose with her sleeve. He glanced at Ron who had bit down his lip, eyes open now, but still pointed down at the floor. In the corner, Hedwig hooted glumly while Ron's owl Pigwidgeon—previously zooming up, down and around their heads—sat on top of the wardrobe, with the least amount of energy that Harry had ever witnessed from the usually zany creature.

"I don't know what to do." Harry let slip out. His voice broke mid-sentence and Hermione and Ron looked up to see the defeat crumple his face.

Harry stared listlessly at the floor, his lips were contorting as if he was biting and re-biting the inside of his mouth, struggling with what he could say. He could feel himself breaking more and more, bit by bit as the silence dragged on.

Hermione shifted forward, outstretching her hand to touch him, but she let it hover; not knowing whether this was the right thing to do. At her hesitation, Harry tried to swallow but his throat tightened. His eyes began to prick—_oh my god_, he thought. _I'm __**terrible.**_

Turning away to face the opposite wall, Harry tried to mumble words like _go away _and _leave me alone_. But he halted, feeling something pull him back, and then;

He felt two pairs of arms wrap around his body.

Ron had stepped forward and guided Hermione's hands towards Harry and they both began to hug him tightly, as if afraid to let him go.

"We're sorry for leaving you alone for so long." Hermione whispered, shaky like she was about to burst out crying.

"For leaving you out," Ron continued, in her stead. "And for thinking that everything would be alright and forgiven, as soon as you arrived here."

Harry was frozen, his arms stretched over and away from them. He couldn't let himself accept their warmth, couldn't let his arms wrap around Hermione and Ron who embraced him so tightly. It felt wrong—he, felt wrong.

"It was hard wasn't it?" Hermione whispered, and at that Ron exhaled like he was about to cry; and this broke Harry down.

He turned and fell into their arms and kindness, his lingering anger fading away as he pressed his trembling hands against Ron's neck and Hermione's waist. He had to breathe out a bit, steady his voice and open up the coil of his throat.

"Yeah. It was," he said. He rest his chin on Hermione's head. "I'm sorry for shouting and being a brat."

Laughing shakily, Ron wiped at his eyes with his palm.

"Guess we're all assholes today." he said.

Weak laughter rang around the room once more. And then they hugged each other tighter.


	7. Hello Harry,

The nook between Ron and Harry's beds found itself being occupied with piles of trademark Weasley blankets and pillows, the warm shades of oranges and reds emphasized by the glow of lanterns Hermione and Ron found, scattered in the hallways and old rooms. The group of three all sat, in varying relaxed positions; Ron on his stomach while he stacked a card castle, Hermione beside him, stroking a crooning Hedwig and Harry - who sat cross-legged, playing with a bauble of light that George and Fred had apparently fashioned to imitate a Snitch. However it only floated lazily when he threw it into the air, drifting back down with an unwavering luminescent glow that was still too weak to cast a proper shadow against the wall. Harry helped himself to Ron's stash of cookies and biscuits and reveled in the calm sort of quiet that enveloped their surroundings, the atmosphere now changed from the intensity that hung about before.

In this quiet, it suddenly occurred to Harry that he had not looked at his friends properly during their emotionally-charged reunion.

He noticed that Hermione's hair had grown, both in length and seeming volume as it bounced ever so slightly whenever she made little motions, alternating between stroking and petting Hedwig. She seemed more demure, in a way, more careful and conscious of her movements. The youthful fullness that usually filled her face had toned down and in her neutral expression, she boasted something more refined and mature; something Harry didn't think was even possible. However when she laughed, Ron's attempts to keep one card still, particularly comical at this moment - her smile spread in that same childish way, lighting up her entire face, all the way to her eyes.

Harry was glad that her smile stayed the same.

Ron, on the other hand, had just generally grown both in length and width. His shoulders had gotten wider and Harry could tell that his friend's summer in the Weasley home, contributed to the growing muscle on his arms, and the increase bunches of little flecks on his neck and hands; his skin also, slightly tanned. Ron cut his hair shorter but kept the fringe long and tousled, it suited him in a boyish way, and there was a growing confidence in the way he handled not only the cards but also - as Harry noticed before - the way he walked and talked. Like Hermione, Ron looked older in the best way but Harry couldn't stop himself from seeing the boy he met on the train.

Ron still smiled lopsidedly, one side of his mouth stretching further up his face than the other and when he laughed, Ron still covered his face with his hands, his mouth staying open and his body racked with his giggles.

Harry found himself smiling unconsciously as he studied them, pleasantly surprised at how his friends have changed in these long months of summer. He wondered himself whether he had changed, in similarly good ways.

"Harry…" Hermione started, and Harry quickly cleared his mind and turned towards her.

"Aren't you… aren't you worried about the Ministry of Magic hearing?" said Hermione quietly. Her eyes were recovering from it's red puffiness, but her voice was no longer shaking. Harry watched as she pulled on the sleeves of her sweater, thinking how to answer.

Mentions of the Ministry and the prospect of expulsion clouded his head, a drop of fear mixing into what already felt like a snowglobe of feelings whirling in his body.

"No," he lied, shuffling closer so his knees could touch both Ron and Hermione. "Besides... you said it yourself, the people here, they can handle it right?"

Hermione nodded, but Harry could tell there was doubt in her mind. He decided to change the subject.

"What is this place anyway?" he asked. "And who are they exactly?"

"Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix," said Ron at once.

"Order of the Phoenix—?"

"It's a secret society," said Hermione quickly. "Dumbledore's in charge, he founded it. It's the people who fought against You-Know-Who last time."

"Voldemort?" Harry quickly snapped up and looked at Ron and Hermione eagerly.

"Harry, seriously, we don't know much since we're not in the meetings..." Hermione shook her head. "Fred and George made these, extendable ear things so we could listen in from outside but…"

"Extendable—?"

"Ears, yeah." Ron gave Harry a biscuit and started to draw something out with his finger in the air. "They're like—what do you call them Hermione?—radios?"

"Listening devices," Hermione corrected.

"The twins made _listening devices_? I thought technology didn't work with magic."

"Well they _are _magic, essentially," said Ron. "I don't know what charms they cast, but you just get one ear close enough to someone talking, and you'll hear everything on the other end."

"The other end?" Harry questioned.

Hermione shuddered and Ron waved that topic away.

"We've had to stop using them lately because Mum found out and went berserk. Fred and George had to hide them all to stop Mum binning them. But we got a good bit of use out of them before Mum realized what was going on. We know some of the Order are following known Death Eaters, keeping tabs on them, you know—"

"—some of them are working on recruiting more people to the Order—" said Hermione.

"—and some of them are standing guard over something," said Ron, who looked over at Harry nervously.

"Oh…" Harry paused. "Me?"

"We think so, but we can't confirm it."

Harry took a bite out of his cookie, the flavour of vanilla and coconut gracing his tongue.

"So if you aren't at meetings… What have you been so busy with? The stuff you mentioned in your letters?" he asked.

"We've been decontaminating this house, it's been empty for ages and stuff's been _breeding _in here. We've managed to clean out the kitchen, most of the bedrooms, and I think we're doing the drawing room tomo—AARGH!"

With two loud cracks, Fred and George had materialized out of thin air sitting right beside them. In Harry and Hermione's cries of surprise, Pigwidgeon twittered more wildly than ever and zoomed off the wardrobe, flying erratically around their heads. Fred laughed and stroked the owl with his fingers.

"Seriously! I know you both are _happy_, about passing your Apparition tests but STOP doing that!" Hermione fumed, smacking at the twins. George couldn't stop laughing at how Ron had reacted; his surprise so violent that his feet had kicked over the stacked-castle into a mess of stray cards on the floor.

"Well we're sorry to drop into you lot, but since this room _had _quietened down for a while," Fred smiled over at Harry. "We just had to see if Harry murdered both of you."

"Harry, you ought to really keep your voice down, you never know who's listening!" George winked, and Harry blushed and nodded meekly.

"Well, luckily for you, it was just us and your biggest fan."

Harry paused, taken aback. _His biggest fan?_

"Is… Colin here?" he asked.

The twins turned to him with dubious expressions.

"Mate…no, no." Fred sighed.

"Alright come out! I know you're still behind that door, Cedric!" George shouted, without looking back. And just like magic, Cedric Diggory apparated into the room, plopping himself right beside Harry, who was so surprised that he became close to either choking or spitting out his third cookie.

"You were all _listening _in?" Ron said incredulously.

"Not completely!" Fred says, throwing his hands up in defense.

"Unlike the adults downstairs, we gave you three some privacy! Well as much as we could, we couldn't help hearing Harry when he shouted really loudly." George said, his face full of glee and shine as Harry sunk deeper and deeper into red-faced humiliation.

"You don't want to bottle up your anger like that, Harry, let it _all _out," said Fred, also beaming. "There might be a couple of people fifty miles away who didn't hear you."

As Harry groaned for him to _"Shut up!"_, he heard Cedric beside him chuckle, which further inflamed his ears. He looked at him while Fred and George chatted away about launching a _"renewed Extendable Ear mission"_ and _"interfering reception"_ or something—holding up what seemed to be a piece of flesh on a long piece of string.

Cedric looked down at Harry. He smiled, a great and warm smile. In the background, Hermione was desperately trying to grab at the 'ear', stressing on "_how awful it was, last time we got caught using it!"_

"Hello Harry," Cedric said looking kind-of relieved but about _what_, Harry didn't know. Instead he managed a bashful smile back, as Fred and George strung the ear out of Hermione's reach, resolving to "_listen into tonight's meeting and learn all the secrets!"_

"Hello Cedric," Harry whispered. There was so much to say, _why are you here?_

_How did you get here?  
Did you know about the Order of the Phoenix as well? How are you?_

But there was no time, right now.

"Harry, say something and bar these two from getting into more mischief!" Hermione suddenly pleaded.

"Er...?" Harry turned to the twins who shone at him brightly.

"It isn't _mischief_, when You-Know-Who is involved!" Fred said, miffed. Harry paused.

"Voldemort? They're talking about Voldemort?!" Harry entreated, his use of his name making everyone flinch. George leaned forward.

"They always do Harry, that's the point of the Order! Don't you wanna know what _they _know?" he tempted, dangling the string in front of him. Harry glanced at Hermione, whose hard glare willed him away from the offer.

"But Hermione—he's right, we _have _to listen in . We've faced Voldemort every single year in some form or another…" Harry said, trying to choose his words carefully. "What makes it more likely that they'll confront him rather than _us_, or even just me?"

Hermione opened her mouth to speak but something flashed in her face, as she began to consider Harry's point. Taking her hesitance as half-consent, Fred and George quickly got up and pranced away.

"Wait, hey! I'm still not a hundred-percent on board with this!" Hermione yelled running after them.

"Technicalities!" Harry heard Fred and George retort back. At the sound of their thudding footsteps, Ron sighed, getting up to go after them. Then Cedric stood, before offering Harry his hand.

"We should probably catch up with the others." He said, and then he squeezed Harry's hand. "Talk later?"

Harry quickly agreed and pulled himself up. As Cedric let go of his hand and turned towards the door, Harry swiftly grasped at his ears; still burning, still red.

There was a brightness in his heart, and it felt like the heat spread and lingered in a wildfire across his body.

He couldn't make sense of it.


	8. Tragic Demigods

The group of teenagers leaned over the railing of the second-floor, staring at the kitchen door which sat directly below them. In the middle, George slowly lowered his Extendable Ear over the banister, while Fred tweaked it's pair underneath Cedric's wand-light.

"You want to be careful," said Ron, staring at the ear. "If Mum sees one of them again…"

"It's worth the risk, when it's a major meeting they're having," said Fred.

"You both really do _need _to be quick." Cedric whispered. The twins both shot him reassuring looks.  
Or at least they tried to _look_ reassuring, but no one could mistake that gleam of excitement that hid poorly behind composed smiles. Harry had forgotten just how notoriously and loving the Weasley twins were for thrill-seeking.

From behind, Hermione whispered rather heatedly, probably still trying to persuade them to stop while they could. It was too quick for Harry to hear properly but in the twin's usual simultaneous response, they hushed her, insisting that she allow them at least a _chance_. As Hermione whipped back from some support, Ron gave a _What-Can-We-Do_ shrug to her indignant stare. Meanwhile Ginny appeared at the top of the stairs and as she walked forward, she waved a cheery hello to Harry.

"I was looking for you all!" she sidestepped so that she could tug at the twin's shirts. "It's a no go with the Extendable Ears, Mum's gone and put an Imperturbable Charm on the kitchen door."

The twins stopped with wide-eyed expressions.

"How d'you know?" said George, looking crestfallen.

"Tonks told me how to find out," said Ginny. "You just chuck stuff at the door and if it can't make contact the door's been Imperturbed. I've been flicking Dungbombs at it from the top of the stairs and they just soar away from it, so there's no way the Extendable Ears will be able to get under the gap."

There was a brief pause, as Hermione whispered "_See I told you!",_ but then Fred suddenly grabbed George's shoulder.

"Let's keep trying," he said, "We _need_ to find out what the meetings about—they're all here tonight, even Snape!"

For a second, Harry wasn't sure he heard correctly,

_"Snapes in the Order?"_

"Yeah! I know rig—oof!" Ron started to laugh before Ginny flung an arm against his stomach.

"Yeah Snape is on our side... unlike the rest of our _family._" she said, her expression turning dark and sour.

"Oh little sister! You're still angry about Percy?" Fred teased.

"Who isn't?!" Ginny replied, irritated.

"Er, what's wrong with Percy?" Harry asked. And Ron quickly began to explain before Ginny could even begin to cuss her third-oldest brother out.

"He was recently promoted as Fudge's Junior Assistant, and you know how Perce is... A year out of Hogwarts and he's holding a higher-ranking position than Dad."

"Oh... I take it Mr Weasley wasn't too happy about that then?"

"No—! Well _yeah, _but for different reasons!" Ron waved his hands. "When Percy announced it, Dad got mad, like, really _proper _mad—I've never seen him get so angry and loud! He was saying stuff about how Fudge just wanted to _spy_ on people close to Dumbledore, wanted to snoop on the Order… They had a big row."

"But Percy must know Voldemort's back," said Harry slowly. "He's not stupid, he must know your mum and dad wouldn't risk everything without proof—"

"Yeah, well, your name got dragged into the row," said Ron, shooting Harry a furtive look. "Percy said the only evidence was your word and… I dunno… he didn't seem to think it was good enough."

"_Basically,_ he's disowned us now." George quipped.

"We should've seen this coming ever since he started taking the Daily Prophet seriously," said Hermione tartly, and the others all nodded, agreeing.

"What are you talking about?" Harry asked, looking around at them all. They all froze, regarding him warily.

"Haven't—haven't you been getting the Daily Prophet?" Hermione asked nervously.

"Yeah, I have!" said Harry.

"Have you—er—been reading it thoroughly?" Hermione asked still more anxiously. She glanced over at Cedric as well. "I'm not talking about the big articles… I mean like the columns and small news at the back."

Oh.

"Okay, _those_, I don't really pay attention to," said Harry, truthfully. Hermione sighed in relief.

"It's nothing worthwhile, believe me…" she said, shaking her head. "Nothing true."

"What do they say?"

At his question, something… settled. Everyone turned from Harry, as if they didn't want to face him and even Hermione hesitated to answer, biting her lip and casting her gaze to the side.

It was Cedric's voice that came, quiet and nonchalant despite the words he uttered,

"Well _apparently_, I'm deluded and you're an attention-seeker, and we're both trying to paint ourselves as the tragic heroes and-slash-or demigods of our fantastical, _fanatical _story." Cedric shrugged. "At least those were the words of _one_ particular column I remember reading this week."

"What?!"

"They just slip you in, like you're a standing joke," Hermione nervously continued. "If some far-fetched story appears they say something like '_a tale worthy of Potter & Diggory' _and if anyone has a funny accident or anything it's '_let's hope he hasn't got a scar on his forehead or we'll be asked to worship him next…'"_

Harry's anger started to seethe again, and he raised his voice.

"Are they taking notes from _Rita Skeeter?!_ I can't believe it!"

"Harry…" Hermione began but he didn't seem to hear her, already stalking off; but to where? Not even he knew.

There was a broiling in his head and something sharp in his chest, and as he paced and moved quickly, suddenly and menacingly, so caught up in his head - he became unaware of Hermione, Ron and Ginny's worried gazes. Even George and Fred were slightly concerned as Harry began to climb the stairs and mumble in outrage, louder and louder. But before he could fully yell _"Are they actually serious?!" _at the top of his voice, Cedric had swiftly walked up the first few steps and placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, cutting him off.

"What are you going to do?" Cedric asked as Harry turned back, startled by his touch.

"_What?_"

"You're walking off somewhere, murmuring to yourself and almost shouting like a madman…" Cedric tugged Harry around to face him. "Well? You must be planning to do _something_ right? What is it?"

"I uh…" Harry shook his head, _why was he walking upstairs?_

"Look I know you're angry, Harry, but we both knew this would've happened eventually." Cedric said soberly.

"Aren't _you _angry?!" Harry demanded and Cedric pulled him closer by the arm.

"Not _now._" he murmured through gritted teeth, and as he turned his head ever so slightly, he drew Harry's attention to the stares of their friends.

"But!" Harry pursed his lips and looked at Cedric, not even knowing what he could say.

He had always been under media-fire, and it had always been more personal than he liked; talking about him as if he _wanted_ all the death and instability. But now, it was arguably worse than the wicked material Rita Skeeter had produced during the Triwizard Tournament, and even _Cedric's _name was dragged into it.

How could he stay so calm in a situation like this?  
_Doesn't it __**bother**_ _you? _Harry wanted to ask.

But as Cedric stared at Harry, his expression undecipherable, nothing but also something _overwhelmingly_ meaningful all at once; he got the hint.

Getting rageful for a second time, probably wasn't the _best_ idea right now.

So Harry walked back down the stairs, quieter much to everyone's relief. And as the others carried on, trying to make out the words and sounds coming from the Extendable Ears, he paused and turned to Cedric.

"Are you really okay with it?" Harry asked making an effort to keep his voice quiet, but his question came out a little more accusatory than he intended. Cedric only glanced to the side, giving a slight smile as if Harry said something funny. When he gazed back, he dropped the smile and Harry suddenly noticed that underneath Cedric's usual demeanour; there was something much deeper playing in the shadows of his face, in the tautness of his jaw.

"I'm okay." Cedric settled, folding his arms and bending over the second-floor railing. "The important people know what we are; like the Order, our friends and _ourselves_."

Harry nodded. Honestly he still didn't understand but he _knew_. The weight of his hand, the meaning of his gaze and questions, and the way he held tightly on the railing; Cedric had read _all_ of the Prophet, ever since they took up this doom-saying campaign. It was clear that there were things that he purposely didn't mention in their letters; that he wanted to say, in person.

But again, now was not the time to find out as Fred jumped back, rapidly trying to reel in the Extendable Ear's string.

"Crap!" he burst out, his sudden volume making everyone jolt and look over the railing. Hermione's cat, Crookshanks had pawed and attacked the Extendable-Ear, his claws piercing through its flesh and starting a small tug-of-war with Fred.

"Hermione make your cat stop _now,_ or else Mum's gonna shank us all!" George whispered hastily.

"Crookshanks! Crookshanks, no! Bad Crookshanks!" Hermione desperately begged, but her cat took no notice, lunging at the ear with an open mouth and biting firmly down. In response, the ear's pair, which was held by a fearful George - emitted a dangerously loud and high-pitched whine, which soon intensified and signaled a tragic end to their stealth mission.

"Someone do something!" Ron squeaked.

Harry bolted down the stairs, making his footsteps light as possible as he reached the ground and got closer to the kitchen door. As Crookshanks watched him inch closer, the cat took a defensive stance, guessing at Harry's intentions and purposefully slurping the entire ear into its mouth. Only a shred of it's lobe could be seen, with the string trailing outside of Crookshank's mouth.

After spending half a minute trying to cajole Crookshanks to spit out the ear, Harry decided to go with a milder version of George and Fred's _whack it and go! _plan, which they kept whispering above. Harry grabbed the string and tried to tug the ear out, but Crookshanks bit down harder on his new toy, the ears pair emitting an even louder whine above.

"I hate your cat!" Harry heard Ron say, and from Hermione's flustered and stuttered response, he guessed that she couldn't really argue this time round.

_Sorry Crookshanks._ Harry thought as he looped the ear's string around his hand. He then struck decisively, shoving his thumb into the corner of Crookshank's mouth and forcing him to open wide, while he quickly tugged the ear out of it's toothy cage. The ear floundered onto the carpeted floor and before Crookshanks could recover and pounce, Harry swiftly grabbed it. Crookshanks began to meow and scratch at Harry's legs, but he was soon chased off as Harry slowly swept him away with his foot.

With the fleshy thing still intact and dangling from its string, Harry grinned and triumphantly held up his cat spit-soaked trophy for all those upstairs to see. The twins, Hermione, Ron and Ginny were ecstatic. With the hallway quiet and the high-pitched whine gone, they had escaped yet another brutal scolding from Mrs Weasley.

Their joy was so _great, _that they forgot _where_ they were and _what_ they were doing, and so began cheering for Harry and hollering so loudly that it created a racket even bigger than the entirety of the Extendable Ear mess; causing the kitchen door swing right open to reveal a displeased Mrs Weasley standing in the doorway, hands on hips, looking _pissed._

Everyone's heart dropped. Fred and George looked at each other. _Oh shi-_

"WHAT'S GOING ON HERE?!" Mrs Weasley bellowed. She stared at Harry standing there, frozen, holding up her most **hated** Weasley Twin™ invention. What followed was a sight Harry had never and would never see again, his eyes widening as he thought about the new shade of red he discovered, spreading across Mrs Weasley's face as she fumed and sputtered. First she began screeching at Fred and George who quickly yelled "_HARRY'S IDEA"_ in unison before conveniently apparating away. She then turned to berate Hermione and Ginny, who cowered behind the stair-railing, for _enabling such nonsense!_ Mrs Weasley was so boisterous that Ron, thinking he wouldn't be heard, quietly scoffed and muttered "_Wow, am I even here?"_

"I'M NOT FORGETTING THAT YOU HAD A PART IN THIS, RONALD WEASLEY." Mrs Weasley screamed, not missing a beat and making everyone upstairs wince; even Fred and George who had escaped into another room. Harry began to shrink further into the floor, as he felt eyes behind Mrs Weasley's back staring holes into him. He guessed that it was the other members of the Order. Mr Weasley, Lupin, Tonks, _Snape_. It wasn't long until Mrs Weasley turned her wrath onto him, and as he stood up, he could see that more than rage, there was disappointment in her face.

That hit harder, especially with her gaunt and tired appearance.

"Didn't I tell you that you're _not_ to participate?" Mrs Weasley exasperated. "That you're not a member, that you're too _young_?! Harry, can't you _LISTEN_ just for once-!"

"Mrs Weasley, it's not Harry's fault, I swear!" Harry heard Cedric call, and he appeared at the bottom of the stairs making his way towards them hurriedly.

"You're not off the hook either!" Mrs Weasley snapped, though Cedric waved the notion away.

"I know, because this was all _my_ fault, really!" Cedric pleaded. Startled, Harry urgently turned towards him, silently yelling in his head; _What are you __**doing**__?!_

Cedric didn't take notice.

"Harry was angry and confused earlier," Cedric said, gripping his arm. "I felt bad that he didn't know what was going on so... I asked Fred and George if they had any Extendable Ears left, maybe if we listened in tonight we could've gotten some information."

Cedric was _lying.  
_Cedric was lying for _him_.

Mrs Weasley narrowed her eyes.

"Is this true?" she asked. Harry glanced over Cedric, who nodded his head ever so slightly.

"Y-yes…" Harry stammered. "I'm sorry, I just couldn't stand it at the Dursleys… not knowing h-how you all were doing, what was really happening in our world—Mrs Weasley, I really am so sorry."

Harry said his own truth, and if Mrs Weasley was reluctant to believe Cedric's previous lie, she could not deny the line of reality behind Harry's words. In her hardened stance, she faltered, and let her hands drop from her hips and her shoulders loosen.

"Are we… are we grounded Mum?" Harry heard Ron stammer upstairs. Mrs Weasley sighed and threw up her hands.

"All of you are cleaning from now on. I'll have you clearing out _entire_ rooms now every day until they're **done.**" A faint chorus of "_yes" _echoed upstairs.

"You two," Mrs Weasley said, pointing at Harry and Cedric. "You'll be cleaning the worst room as punishment for today."

"Okay." Harry said. He hung his head and stared at the ground. He figured Cedric must've looked a little gloomy as well when he heard Mrs Weasley sigh again.

"You're both forgiven when you clean out the entire room, _but!_ You're still too young to come even _one floor_ close to the meetings in the kitchen."

She squeezed Harry's arm and let her voice take a more gentle tone.

"Got it?" she asked.

"Yes, got it." Cedric and Harry repeated.

"Good." Mrs Weasley nodded, looking weary but satisfied. Harry supposed that maybe she was tired of getting angry.

Especially after Percy_._

"Now just wait half an hour longer, dinner will be ready as soon as we finish this already _delayed_ meeting." she said, arching her eyebrow. She shooed them off and Harry solemnly followed Cedric upstairs, not daring to look back.

It was only when he heard the kitchen door slam shut, that he allowed himself to let out a large and relieved breath, to which Cedric responded with a muffled snicker.

"You're _good_." Harry said, still reeling.

"Whatever do you mean?" Cedric said, with a voice that hitched slightly; he was playing coy.

"I mean, _thank you_ for saving me but…" Harry grabbed his arm, aghast. "You didn't have to take the blame!"

"Hey, what are friends for, yeah?" Cedric grinned, looking back. Harry stopped, noticing how mischievous he looked, especially when he smiled like that. He shook his head. Maybe it was the lighting.

"Guess I've made a troublesome friend." Harry mused. Cedric laughed again.

"Well then, the feelings mutual now!" he remarked. _Crap. _

Harry couldn't deny that.


	9. Order of the Phoenix (I)

"George, if you tell me whether Fred is bluffing, I'll tell you which twin Angelina prefers." Cedric suddenly said, utterly deadpan and serious as he held tight onto his hand of cards. In an ensuing instant, George's face dropped while Ron gave a sharp whistle, Ginny cackling madly.

Back in Ron and Harry's bedroom, a drawn out, nine-round card game was being played, at Cedric's suggestion. It was a way for everyone's ears to cool after Mrs Weasley's piercing screams, and for time to pass by quickly until they were finally allowed to go downstairs. Trying to raise their spirits, everyone crammed themselves between the nook of Ron and Harry's beds with a hoard of cookies—made out of everyone's own personal stash—and an abundance of blankets, duvet and even the room's own curtains; covering and cushioning the wooden floor, trying to soften and disguise the inherent harshness of the cold bedroom.

While their moods recovered, nobody took the game seriously until Cedric—halfway through—dubbed it "The Final Hufflepuff-Gryffindor showdown"; as if it was an unofficial or preliminary rematch of the Quidditch game that Gryffindor lost to Hufflepuff all those months ago.

Lying and poker-faces weren't as much of an arsenal compared to the social bribery, sabotage and blackmail that suddenly dominated the game. And with four out of the six Gryffindors already out—having lost or folded in the previous rounds—the lone Hufflepuff taunted at their house pride and strength.

So obviously, the stakes were high.

It was Hermione who first went out, a victim of Cedric's diplomatic maneuvers when he happened to mention Viktor Krum, and how the famous Quidditch player would wistfully lament about his short-lived tryst with "Hermy-own".

—_He still can't pronounce my name right?!"_

_"He's… trying his best." —_

More unexpected, however, was that Ron also folded at mention of Krum, quickly smacking his hand down on the floor as soon as Cedric made a pointed look at him. Harry decided to ask later while Ginny was more blatantly mystified; chiding Ron for being 'so weak' that his face grew visibly hot.

"What was it? That valentine you wrote Harry—eyes as green as a fresh pickled toad, right?" Ron goaded, reciting the love poem Ginny had written in her first-year.

And just like her brother, Ginny turned into furious shade of pink, meekly folding but not before she whacked Ron right in the face.

"Don't sabotage your own team!" Harry exclaimed as Ginny looked swiftly away.

"She started it!" Ron said, and both Harry and Hermione sighed.

It was three against one now, and with Harry, the twins and Cedric left in the game—they continued with some minor secrets spilled.

Everyone lost it when Fred was outed for his recurrent ballroom-dancing-with-McGonagall nightmares, and the Weasley twins found it specifically hilarious and endearing when they found out that Harry had mistakenly called Mrs Weasley 'mum' several times at school;

— _"Don't worry Harry, we're basically family right?"_

_"Please don't use that as an excuse to test your joke-shop products on me." — _

Even the perfect Hufflepuff could not escape as George exposed—a rather innocent secret, he thought,—Cedric's love for lavender-scented candles and incense, much to both his and Harry's unexpected surprise. While Cedric laughed and continued the entire round like normal ... like Ginny, he did not dare look Harry in the eyes.

But the opportunity for payback came quickly enough, when in the current Game Six of Nine, he brought up the Yule Ball and the important name of Angelina Johnson to everyone's attention.

"Hang on, didn't she go with Fred?" Ron raised, puzzled. "So doesn't she prefer Fred?"

"Well that's how I remember it..." Fred said and he narrowed his eyes and glanced at George, who wildly brought his hands up, pleading innocence.

"Don't look at me!" he said defensively, "I didn't even have a date last year—you all were haggling me about it for months before and afterwards!"

"Really?! But I swear, when everyone was moshing to the band, I saw you and a girl behind the curtains... snogging..." Ginny trailed off. Something washed over her and Ron, and they suddenly howled in realization.

"No, no, shut up. Shut up!" George said, hurriedly trying to quieten them down.

"Holy shit, George!" Ron said, and he laughed so loudly and violently that he doubled over, his head burrowed underneath a blanket that muffled his chortles. Even Hermione couldn't help it, her eyes tearing up as she giggled behind a closed mouth, lips quivering and shoulders shaking - she was trying not to laugh.

Fred only stared at George, his mouth agape.

"You _snogged _Angelina!?"

George sputtered, and then he blushed, _hard_.

"Well what was I s'posed to do?! She thought I was you!"

"WHAT?!"

_"You _should've done it when _you _had the chance!"

"WHY YOU-!"

Fred threw his cards up in the air and tackled George, pinning him to the floor. They both managed to hook their legs around the other's waist and were soon hurtling across the floor, grabbing at each other's hair and clothes. Ginny and Ron tried to get them apart, still in hysterics, while Hermione approached the fray, trying to urgently mediate some sort of peace.

Back in the nook of Ron and Harry's beds, Cedric scoured and peeked at Fred's stray cards.

"Aha! He was bluffing!" he said, pumping his fist into the air.

"It doesn't even matter, they've both basically folded now!" Harry groaned but he couldn't help but find the sight amusing, watching as Ginny slammed her fist against her two brothers heads in an effort to get them to stop brawling.

It... didn't work.

"I was just going to tell them that Angelina, lovingly, doesn't prefer either of them — since she doesn't even know whether they like her or not," Cedric shrugged. "They both needed a push like this, it was _important _information."

Harry snickered and then turned to Cedric, using his cards like a shield in front of his face.

"Alright then, what important information have you got to make me, fold?" he challenged. Cedric's face screwed with thought.

"Hmm, let me see..." he said, glancing down at his own hand, looking as if in serious thought. Harry waited, expectantly.

"Well, have I mentioned that your haircut looks great on you?"

.

.

.

… Huh.

Harry paused.

It was a week after Harry arrived back to Privet Drive when Miss Figgs cut his hair, apparently unable to bear seeing him, look like a _'shaggy dog'._ She had nearly shaved the entire bottom base of his head, before cutting his curly, bed-headed locks shorter — keeping his forehead and sight clear, but still long enough to become a fringe, flopping over the right way to cover his scar.

"Nice try, but I don't think that's going to work," he snorted. And looking up, Harry found Cedric staring straight back at him; a slight smile on his face, and his eyebrows furrowed as if he was asking, '_Why not?'_

It was a look of quiet confusion.

.

.

.

Oh.

He was serious.

"'Course, I am!" Cedric suddenly said.

_Ah._

Harry had said that out loud.

"Its nice that you left your natural curls though..." Cedric said, interrupting as he reached over and lightly swept his fingers against the top of Harry's head.

"And it's not that you didn't look good before, you just look better now. More… adulty." he added hastily, he tilted his head slightly when he said _'adulty' _ and his lips thinned into a lopsided smirk as he made the word up. Harry became very suddenly aware of Cedric's fingers, and how they traced all the way down to the shaved underside of his head, light touches grazing between the edge of his hair and his neck.

He had rarely let anyone touch his head especially after that one time Mr Dursley, not willing to 'waste' money on a proper barber, chopped it himself. But even with the rare few people who were allowed to touch it, like Miss Figgs, Mrs Weasley, Sirius and even with Ron and Hermione—Harry had never felt something, quite, like what he was feeling now.

Without saying a word, he let the moment pass and felt the soft pressure disappear as Cedric's hand retreated back.

"I, er—" Harry fumbled for something to say "...Thank you…?"

And in response, Cedric grinned and looked back down at his cards.

"That wasn't actually an attempt to get you to fold by the way, I just wanted to tell you." he said.

"...R-right, thanks." Harry mumbled. He began to reorganize his cards even though they didn't really need any shifting, his head turning into a melting pot of confusion, surprise and mechanic beeping, like the robot show that Dudley kept watching on the telly; chiming off, stirring and mushing into an ugly mess inside his brain as silence followed Cedric's compliment, or, as much silence that could be had with the twin's scuffle in background.

_Maybe I should compliment him back? _Harry thought.  
But he couldn't actually remember whether Cedric's appearance had changed at all, afraid to bring his eyes up, just in case Cedric was already looking at him for a response. Suddenly a large CRACK echoed in the room; Fred and George had apparated away.

"Alright," Ginny huffed, suddenly appearing in the nook and sitting back down on the floor. "Those two idiots have gone away to sort their issues upstairs."

"I'm glad that their apparating is convenient for one, good thing," Hermione sighed as she appeared as well.

Soon Ginny, Ron and Hermione had all sat down, eager to continue the game and saving Harry for the moment. He was still confused. And he could feel Cedric's eyes on him, not waiting or anticipating anything.

Just _watching._

But Harry wouldn't have long to ponder when Mrs Weasley's muffled voice rang from the ground floor, calling them down to the kitchen.

With Ron eagerly leading the way - his stomach grumbling ever since Harry arrived - and the tense Weasley twins reluctantly trudging behind; it wasn't long before they were all welcomed downstairs. The promise of dinner and a hint of warm light surprising them, and gracing the dark hallway.

After Ginny and Ron's noses were pinched upon entering the kitchen door, Harry and Cedric attempted to apologise to Mrs Weasley once again, but she waved their words away; fussing particularly over Harry's '_bony frame!'_ and pointing them to either help out or sit at the dinner table.

Harry took the moment to look around slightly, noticing how many chairs had been crammed into the room for the meeting and a long wooden table stood in the middle of them, littered with rolls of paper, goblets, empty wine bottles and a heap of what appeared to be rags. However most of the Order had seemingly left including, thankfully, Snape; who was nowhere in sight within the gloomy room which like the rest of the house, was dimly lit, its wallpaper peeling and floorboards creaking with every step.

The kitchen was expensively antique, its melding with a dining room, immaculate in Victorian-Gothic colors, ornaments and styled furniture; however, everything looked worn, unkempt, and old, destroying whatever classic architectural elegance it had at first glance. (Or at least that's how the Dursley's home magazines would critique the place.) From what Harry could see, most of the light was coming from a large fire at the far end of the room, and some gas lamps that flickered overhead. At the end of the dining table, a lantern had been placed, illuminating Mr Weasley and Bill - his eldest son - who were deep in hushed conversation while pointing at an open parchment. As Harry approached, eager to see what the parchment contained, Billy noticed him and hurriedly scrambled to clean up. Mr Weasley jumped to his feet and bounded forward to greet him.

"Harry!" he said, shaking his hand vigorously. "Good to see you!"  
Like his wife, Mr Weasley looked visibly weary, with his eyes a little dimmer than what Harry could recall, and his red hair balding, suit hanging on his body as if it was slightly too big for him. Over his shoulder Harry glanced at Bill who still wore his long ginger hair in a ponytail, hastily rolling up the lengths of parchment left on the table.

"Journey all right, Harry?" Bill called, trying to gather up twelve scrolls at once. "Mad Eye didn't make you come via Greenland, then?"

"He tried," said Tonks, striding over to help Bill and immediately toppling a candle onto the last piece of parchment. "Oh no— _sorry—"_

At once Bill lifted his wand and repaired the parchment, and in the flash of light from his charm—Harry caught a glimpse of what looked like the plan of a building. Mrs Weasley snatched the plan on the table and stuffed it into Bill's already overladen arms.

"This sort of thing ought to be cleared away promptly at the end of meetings," she snapped, before sweeping off towards an ancient dresser from which she started unloading dinner plates.

Bill gave Harry a defeated, and almost apologetic, smile before hurriedly casting _'Evanesco!' _which vanished the scrolls.

"Have you seen Snuffles yet?" Bill asked.

"Snuffles?"

Bill pointed towards the opposite doorway where, something like a black fur coat lay, on top of a bohemian carpet in front of the fireplace. Harry walked closer and the 'coat', noticing his presence, sat up, stretching it's jaw and giving a little whiny yawn. At this, Harry's spirits suddenly began to rise, not just because of the smell of stew and meat that wafted in the kitchen and nor, was it solely the bustle and loud bantering that he had missed all summer; decorated his surroundings as everyone prepared to set the table and help with dinner—though they all attributed to his warm feeling—

No, it was the presence of the large black dog sitting in front of him, it's head cocked and tail wagging eagerly. The dog's body was draped with a navy, silk dress robe, lined with gold etching. Harry couldn't help but grin widely, it must've been borrowed from Lupin.  
He walked closer and without missing a beat, he beamed—

"Sirius!"

There was a moment where Harry swore that the dog smiled before happily barking in response. Swiftly, before everyone's eyes, 'Snuffles' began to stand on his hind legs and transform into a tall man with dark and curly hair than ran to his shoulders. In an appearance, fuller than the last time Harry saw it, Sirius Black no longer seem even remotely related to the picture of the screaming madman on the Ministry's wanted posters. His gaze was still fierce, but the light in those eyes and his smile stayed kind.

Harry rushed to hug him, glad that the man who hugged him back felt stronger, that the waist Harry held was wide and firm.

"How goes it, godson?" Sirius asked playfully. He nuzzled Harry's hair, unexpectedly- probably a habit that he picked up as Snuffles—but it filled Harry with something warm and bright.

"Better now," Harry replied, squeezing tightly. When they let go, Sirius led him to the dining table, attempting to answer Harry's rapid questions of _'Who, Why, When, Where, How'_ and specifically _'What' _ by first explaining about this strange house that everyone occupied.

—_"Can you believe that it belongs to me? Well… it belonged to my family, the Blacks, but I'm the only one left to live in it."_

_"This house belongs to your family! Really?!"_

_"Of course, haven't you met my mother ? Her portraits in the hallway! Though, I didn't hear her scream 'traitor' or 'scum' at anyone in a while… how strange!" — _

Meanwhile Cedric enchanted a red cloth to cover the table, and cast all but one jug of Butterbeer to concoct itself. He began to stir the last jug by himself but Tonks soon interrupted him, knocking over a chair that hit his leg while she flitted over to help Mrs Weasley with the pot. As soon as Cedric was apologized to, Ginny also cried out in pain, Tonks having swung around with a ladle, hitting her and Hermione in their chins and causing tea towels and some silverware to drop in the large cauldron of stew.

Before long Mrs Weasley had politely, but wearily, asked everyone to sit down at the dining table while she scooped the stew into a pot, and Fred and George carried out the dinner plates.

Now at the table, Tonks had begun to entertain Hermione and Ginny, transforming and morphing her face into whatever they requested. Harry seemed too busy to even realize that Tonks's face was changing, as he exclaimed in disbelief at his godfather.

"How have _you _had a lousy summer?!" he said, loud enough for the entire table to hear. Everyone but Cedric were too involved with their own conversations—Mr Weasley, Bill and Lupin in deep conversation while Ron started to cry in laughter at Mundungus, who Harry had discovered to be the pile of rags he had seen earlier, and his story about stealing stolen cauldrons.

Harry continued to question Sirius, "At least you're in on the Order and everything! You've been here the whole time!"

"Well the Ministry's still after me and Voldemort will know all about me being an Animagus by now—courtesy of Wormtail—so my big disguise is useless. With the entire Britain's wizarding world out for _both _my necks, well... there's not much I can do for the Order of the Phoenix … or so Dumbledore feels."

There was something about the slightly flattened tone of voice in which Sirius uttered Dumbledore's name that told Harry that Sirius, too, was not very happy with the headmaster. Harry felt a sudden upsurge of affection for his godfather.

"And ah! Yes, listening to Snapes reports all summer and having to take all his snide hints that he's out there risking his life while I'm sat on my backside here having a nice comfortable time … asking me how the cleaning's going—" Sirius muttered darkly under his breath, and Harry could make out his threats to a couple of hex's he's never even heard of before.

"Uh…" Harry tried to distract Sirius from his shadowy thoughts. "What cleaning are you doing?"

"Trying to make this place fit for human habitation," said Sirius, waving a hand around the dismal kitchen. "No one's lived here for ten years, not since my dear mother died unless you count her old house-elf and he's gone round the twist—hasn't cleaned anything in a-!"

There was a sudden crash and clatter as dinner plates, which had been drifting between the air and the counter til now, hurtled toward the dining table before dropping abruptly. Some plates landed a bit too close to people's fingers and laps while one, ungracefully, dropped on Sirius's head.

Mundungus had toppled backwards off his chair and started swearing as he got to his feet. While Crookshanks, who had been sitting on Sirius's lap, gave an angry hiss and shot off under the dresser, from where his large yellow eyes glowed in the darkness.

"For heaven's sakes!" yelled Mrs Weasley. "There was no need to... I've had enough of this! Just because you're allowed to use magic now, doesn't mean you don't have to whip your wands out for every TINY LITTLE THING!"

"We were just trying to save a bit of time!" said Fred, hurrying forward to pick up the plates. "Sorry, Sirius—didn't meant to do it..."

"Boys—" Mr Weasley said, lifting the plates onto the table, "Your mother's right, you're supposed to show a sense of responsibility now you've come of age- "

"None of your brothers caused this sort of trouble!" Mrs Weasley raged at the twins as she slammed a fresh flagon of Butterbeer onto the table.

"Bill didn't feel the need to Apparate every few feet! Charlie didn't charm everything he met! Percy—" She stopped dead, catching her breath with a very frightened look at her husband whose expression was suddenly wooden.

"We're sorry!" the twins cried out almost immediately. Fred rushed to his mother's sides, while George hurried picked up the plates in a stack and laid them out on the table.

"I'm _really _sorry, Mum." Fred said, his hand on her back, as he lead her to a seat beside Mr Weasley.

"We'll try and lessen the prick-levels a bit." George said tenderly, before quickly mumbling.

"Er.. no promises though."  
Fred carried the pot of stew to the centre of the table, while George fetched his mother a Butterbeer before scampering to his seat. Everyone waited with bated breath as Mrs Weasley didn't seem to know how to react, and Mr Weasley just stared at the table.

"Come, let's eat now." Bill said quickly, before silence could delay dinner any longer.

"Yes, it looks wonderful, Molly."said Lupin, ladling stew onto a plate for her and handing it across the table. The tenseness still clung to both Mr and Mrs Weasley, but they eventually shook off their previous shock and the table's current nervousness, encouraging everyone to eat.

And so, slightly dispirited, they all tucked in.


	10. Order of the Phoenix (II)

"I've been meaning to tell you Sirius, there's something trapped in that writing desk in the drawing room, it keeps rattling and shaking. Of course, it could just be a Boggart, but I thought we ought to ask Alastor to have a look at it before we let it out," Mrs Weasley said, as she set down a plate of her most famous rhubarb crumble and custard.

"Whatever you like," Sirius replied, his tone light, but almost... _indifferent_, to Harry.

"The curtains in there are full of Doxys, too," Mrs Weasley went on, as everyone eagerly helped themselves to a large slice of dessert. "I thought we might try and tackle them tomorrow."

"I look forward to it," said Sirius. Again, his words were light, but too much so, like a sarcasm in his voice. Harry looked around and saw how Lupin stared at Sirius reproachfully.

No one else seemed to notice.  
Harry decided to forget about it and soon gorged himself on Mrs Weasley's baking. Three helpings of rhubarb crumble and custard later — the waistband on Harry's jean was feeling uncomfortably tight (which was saying something as the jeans had once been Dudley's). As he laid down his spoon there was a lull in the general conversation: Mr Weasley was leaning back in his chair, looking replete and relaxed; Tonks was yawning widely, her nose now back to normal; and Ginny, who had lured Crookshanks from under the dresser, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rolling Butterbeer corks for him to chase.

Cedric cleared the table quietly as he stacked his plate on top of Ron's. When he tried to clean the plates, Mrs Weasley quickly took over, with a quiet "Thank you dear" and a pointed stare at the twins, Ron and Ginny. She then waved her wand and animated a sponge to start scrubbing the dishes, the soft sound of water running and the clinks of each plate adding to the general laziness of the table.

Harry heard a muted clap, "Nearly time for bed, I think," said Mr Weasley with a yawn. Harry stifled one himself, and as little tears pooled at the corner of his eyes, he wondered whether the mattress of his bed would feel as old or as luxurious as the rest of the house; he hoped it was the latter.

"Yes, we all have a big day of cleaning ahead of us tomorrow..." Mrs Weasley replied, beginning to usher everyone out of the room.

"Not just yet, Molly," said Sirius, turning to look at Harry. "You know, I'm surprised at you. I thought the first thing you'd do when you got here would be to start asking questions about Voldemort."

The atmosphere changed with the rapidity Harry associated with the arrival of Dementors. A frisson had gone around the table at the mention of Voldemort's name. Mr Weasley, who looked as if he was about to doze off in his chair, perked up; casting a cautious glance at his wife, whose lips pursed. While Fred and George eagerly leant against the table, tugging Cedric to listen in as well despite his obvious hesitance.

Lupin, who had been about to take a sip of wine, lowered his goblet slowly, looking wary. He blinked rapidly and spoke slow, careful.

"Sirius, I don't think—"

"I did!" interrupted Harry indignantly. "I asked Ron and Hermione but they said we're not allowed in the Order, so—"

"And they're quite right, said Mrs Weasley. "You're too young."

She was sitting bolt upright in her chair, her firsts clenched on it's arms, every trace of drowsiness gone.

"Since when did someone have to be in the Order of the Phoenix to ask questions?" asked Sirius. "Harry's been trapped in that Muggle house for a month. He's got the right to know what's been happeni—"

"Hang on! interrupted George loudly.

"How come Harry get his questions answered?!" said Fred angrily.

"We've been trying to get stuff out of you for a month and you haven't told us a single thing!" said George.

Fred cleared his voice and began to speak in a high-pitched voice that resembled his mother's; "You're too young, you're not in the order—_we're _too young?! Harry's not even of age!"

"It's neither my fault nor my responsibility that you two haven't been briefed on what the Order's doing," said Sirius calmly, "That's your parents' decision. Harry on the other hand—"

"It's not down to you to decide what's good for Harry!" said Mrs Weasley sharply. The expression on her normally kind face looked dangerous. "You haven't forgotten what Dumbledore said, I suppose?"

"Which bit?" Sirius asked politely, but with the air of a man readying himself for a fight.

"Sirius, don't!" Lupin hissed. Sirius backed into his seat, but his gaze stayed very much fierce, his body language translating that he remained quite open to a challenge. Mrs Weasley seem to take up the offer;

"You, I and us all, are not supposed to tell Harry more than he needs to know."

"I don't intend to tell him _more _than he needs to know, Molly," said Sirius. "But as _he _was the one who saw Voldemort come back—" (again, there was a collective shudder around the table at the name) "He has more right than _most _to—"

Sirius couldn't get a word in as Mrs Weasley began to argue with him, their retorts touching from reason and logic to more personal jabs—each of their voices and words interrupting the other, quick and sharp but growing in volume. Everyone's head swivelled between each end of the table, from Sirius to Mrs Weasley as though they were following a tennis rally. Ginny was kneeling amid a pile of abandoned Butterbeer corks, watching the conversation with her mouth slightly open. Lupin's eyes were fixed on Sirius, and Mr Weasley sat on the edge of his seat, his hands hovering nervously above the table as he tried to jump into the conversation.

"He's not a child!" Sirius cried out suddenly, impatient and jolting everyone at the table when he stood up so abruptly that his chair fell to the floor behind him.

"Well, he's not an adult either!" said Mrs Weasley, and she stood as well, the color rising in her cheeks. "He's not _James_, Sirius!"

Sirius blinked, dumbfounded as he took a step back. Then a moment passed as in his expression; a quick flash of anger, like the first crack of lightning in a thunderstorm.  
Before Sirius could even open his mouth properly, Lupin hastily jumped into the fray, stepping in front of his friend like a shield, or a wall. Mrs Weasley turned quickly to him, hopeful that finally she was about to get an ally.

"Personally," Lupin said. "I think it better that Harry gets the facts—not all the facts, Molly, but the general picture—from us, rather than a garbled version from … others."

His expression was mild, but Harry felt sure Lupin, at least, knew that some Extendable Ears had survived Mrs Weasley's purge. Mr Weasley nodded at Lupin's statement and grabbed his wife's hand.

"Dumbledore knows the position has changed, dear," he said, speaking up. "He accepts that Harry will have to be filled in, to a certain extent, now that he is staying at Headquarters."

There was a thick silence that followed his words, as if no one dared breathe less they set something off in the room.

"Well," said Mrs Weasley, breathing deeply and looking around the table for support that did not come, "I can see I'm going to be overruled. I'll just say this: Dumbledore must have had his reasons for not wanting Harry to know too much, and speaking as someone who has Harry's best interests at heart—"

"He's not your son," said Sirius quietly.

"He's as good as," said Mrs Weasley fiercely. "Who else has he got?"

Harry looked up at her, surprised, while Sirius sighed; holding the bridge of his nose and screwing his eyes shut as if he was suffering from a migraine.

"You know, either on purpose or not, you seem to keep forgetting—he's got me. His _godfather_."

"Oh _yes_," said Mrs Weasley, her lip curling, "The thing is, it's been rather difficult for you to look after him while you've been locked up in Azkaban, hasn't it?"

There was a flash of something in Sirius's eyes again, but this time it lingered in a hardened expression that turned dark. Suddenly he started walking very fast, pivoting as he tried to round the table.

Lupin quickly grabbed Sirius by the arm, "Molly, you're not the only person at this table who cares about Harry," he said sharply, in a voice that was only _slightly _raised but commanded enough weight to single-handedly snuff the room. Mrs Weasley's lower lip trembled, as she suddenly realized how hard she had been squeezing her husband's hand throughout the entire argument.

"And Sirius, stand down," Lupin ordered, gritting his teeth as Sirius, who had been struggling against his grip before, stopped; slowly turning to face forward again, but with his head hung, expression hidden from the rest of the table. Lupin picked up the thrown chair and set it upright as Sirius sank slowly back into it's cushion; his face tired and pale.

Lupin sighed.

"I think Harry ought to be allowed a _say _in this… he's—" and he sighed again, "—_old enough_, to decide for himself at the very least."

He turned to Harry, "What do you think?"

"I want to know what's been going on," Harry said at once. He did not look at Mrs Weasley. He did not want to see what sort of pained expression she had, he didn't want to see the fresh disappoint that she must've felt even after describing him as being as good as her own son. But Harry couldn't help it. He was impatient, having wanted this for so many months, the information blackout driving him nearly mad.

And Sirius was right, though he was not an adult, he was neither a child too.

"Very well," said Mrs Weasley, her voice cracking. "Ginny—Ron—Hermione—Cedric—Fred and George; I want you out of this kitchen, now."

Suddenly, interrupting the quiet defeatedness that hung about the air before, there was an instant uproar.

"We're of age!" Fred and George bellowed together.

"You too, Cedric, speak up mate!" Fred said offhandedly, though Cedric glanced wildly between them and Mrs Weasley, looking as if he wanted no part in this mess.

"If Harry's allowed, why can't I?!" shouted Ron.

"Mum, I want to hear!" wailed Ginny.

"NO!" shouted Mrs Weasley, standing up, her eyes overbright. "I absolutely forbid—"

"Molly, you can't stop Fred and George," said Lupin wearily. "Both they and Cedric are of age."

"They're still at _school!"_

"But they're legally adults now," said Mr Weasley, in the same tired voice.

Mrs Weasley's face turned scarlet as Fred and George hi-fived each other, and then the still reluctant Cedric.

"I—oh, all right then, Cedric, Fred and George can stay, but Ron—"

"Harry'll tell me and Hermione everything you say anyway!" said Ron hotly. Then he paused. "Won't— won't you?" he added uncertainly, meeting Harry's eyes.

For a split second, Harry considered telling Ron that he wouldn't tell him a single word.  
Something sprouted in his head that begged him to give Ron and Hermione, a _taste_, of what it felt like to be kept in the dark; to see how they liked it. But as Harry considered it, his eyes shifting from Ron and Hermione's earnest expressions across the table, Cedric caught his gaze; his head tilted quizzically again, and his face pulled in that same quiet confusion as before—as if he knew the idea that was squirming in Harry's head and could only ask '_why?'_

Once again, something cold drenched Harry's body. He knew that Cedric was probably wondering something else, like, what was taking so long for Harry to answer his best-friend's own question?—but that small glance, Cedric's expression, took out whatever desire was floating in Harry's head, vanishing the nasty impulse into a corner of bad ideas. He took a breath.

"Course I will," he said, decisively.

Ron and Hermione beamed.

"Fine!" shouted Mrs Weasley, she threw up her hands in frustration. "Ginny — BED!"

There was an infuriated groan as Ginny stood up to follow her mother outside, slamming the kitchen door closed behind her, and stepping so hard against the floor; that everyone could still hear her footsteps as she walked further from the kitchen. As Ginny raged her way upstairs, suddenly, there was an ear-splitting shriek that added to the din; like a human-sounding security alarm, going off so loudly that Harry and Cedric desperately clamped his hands against the sides of his head. Everyone else groaned, half-heartedly trying to block the noise from their ears while Harry—for some reason—found himself, stumbling out into the hallway, trying to get closer to the sound. Walking down the darkness, Harry followed the screams until he heard a sudden BANG! against the wall—the surprise and shock jerking Harry's lit wand from his hand as a woman hammered against a window beside him, screeching.

"Who is that?!" he asked as Sirius charged toward him, _Lumos _cast, seemingly searching for something on the ground or along the wall. Harry soon realized that despite being placed in between the short curtains that Sirius tried to pull across, the window wasn't _actually _window, but rather a portrait; a hyper-realistic painting like the ones at Hogwarts, depicting a screaming elderly woman in a black cap.

"TRAITORS! MUDBLOOD SCUM!" the woman shrieked madly. Her gaunt face was twisted, with old lines that etched her face like a gnarled old tree. Despite wearing a tight bun, her hair spilled out from her frenzy, raven-black with a few grey streaks; bobbing up and down as her boney body banged against the portrait, her probably more elegant face warped as she howled obscenities and dirty words. Sirius growled, he held a velvety, dark cloth in his hand.

"Shut up, old hag!" he shouted, and he threw the cloth onto the portrait, hiding the woman from view. As if muffled by the draped cloth the painting's shrieks, which had grown louder at Sirius's insult, became quieter; Harry less nauseated by the overwhelming noise that echoed in the hallway before. The old woman still screamed, the portrait's frame still shaking and making the wall it hung upon vibrate, sending dust cascading and spilling to the floor—but now the house was nowhere near as loud as it had just been. It was just the sound of Harry's deep breaths, and Sirius's muttered curses as his chest heaved. Both of them, panting as they had been running several miles.

While they caught their breaths, Harry had another realization, something that Sirius said during dinner.

"Was that," he huffed, staring at him, "Was that your—"

"My mother, yes." Sirius said, breathing heavily. He noticed Harry's staring and shook his head lightly.

"Now's…it's not the time for questions, at least not about _her_." he said pointing to the kitchen doorway, it's dim light spilling into the dark hallway. "Let's just talk about the necessary things tonight, so we can all go to bed."

There as an urgency in Sirius's voice. As Harry followed him back into the kitchen, he wondered whether his godfather really wanted to sleep, or whether he just really wanted to get away from his mother's portrait.

"Can I ask about it later?" Harry asked quietly. Sirius paused. His fists curled and he seemed hesitant to give an answer but, with great effort, his body let go of the tension and his shoulders sagged. He was resigned.

"Of course." he eventually.

They entered the kitchen.


	11. Five Seconds

"OK, Harry … what do you want to know?" he asked.  
Harry blinked as an abundance of questions and thoughts ran around his head, trying to sift through debris as it wound round and round like incessant hurricane.

There was a sober atmosphere that hung around the kitchen. The only reminders that they were all in a kitchen and not some sort of interrogation chamber were the small noises in the background; Mrs Weasley's animated sponge continuing to wash the dishes and the plates stacking themselves neatly onto the drying rack. Whatever lull, whatever laziness that had permeated before was now gone with everyone wide awake and alert. A small chill had crept into the room, the only source of light and warmth emanating from overhead gas lamps, which flickered ever so often and cast dark shadows on everyone's faces; making full cheeks and bright eyes gaunt and lifeless.  
They all sat on the table again, the teenagers occupying one side while the other contained the grim faces of Sirius, Lupin, Bill, Tonks and Mr Weasley; all looking at the teenagers intently, waiting.

Harry took a deep breath and asked the question that had obsessed him for the last month.

"Where's Voldemort?" he asked. He ignored the renewed shudders and winces at the name, continuing on, "What's he doing? I've been trying to watch the Muggle news, and Cedrics been writing to me about things… but there hasn't been anything that looks like him yet, no funny deaths or anything."

Sirius's face twitched.

"That's because there haven't been any funny deaths yet, not as far as we know, anyway … and we know quite a lot."

"More than he thinks we do, anyway," said Lupin.

"How come he's stopped killing people?" Harry asked. He knew Voldemort had murdered more than once in the last year alone, eager to shed blood, even before he had truly risen into his own body.

"He doesn't want to draw attention to himself," said Sirius. "It would be dangerous for him. His comeback didn't come off quite the way he wanted it to, you see. He messed it up."

"Or rather, you two…." Lupin said, his eyes darting between Harry to Cedric. "You two messed it up for him."

Harry looked over at Cedric, who look as confused as he felt.

"How?" Cedric asked, perplexed. There was a caution in his demeanour, a hesitance.

"Well, assuming that neither of you were supposed to survive the ritual in the graveyard," Sirius said, and Harry felt Cedric shudder beside him. "Nobody apart from his Death Eaters were supposed to know he'd come back."

"But here we are. You both survived, and have tried to tell the world what you've witnessed," Lupin smiled slyly. Harry gave a short and bitter laugh.

"Not like anyone actually taken us seriously about it."

Bill turned to look at him at once.

"Are you kidding?" he said incredulously.

"Thanks to you, Dumbledore was able to recall the Order of Phoenix about an hour after Voldemort returned," said Sirius.

"And Dumbledore was the only one You-Know-Who was ever scared of!" Bill added.

"So then, what's the Order been doing?" Harry asked, looking around them all.  
It was the big question.

"We've been acting on Dumbledore's orders. He's got shrewd ideas about You-Know-Who's plans..." Mr Weasley replied. "But those shrewd ideas normally turn out to be accurate."

"Like?" Ron prompted.

"Like trying to drum up an army again," Bill said.

_"Again?"_

"In the old days he had huge numbers at his command: witches and wizards he'd bullied or bewitched into following him, his faithful Death Eaters, a great variety of Dark Creatures—" Sirius shook his head— "He's trying to recruit the giants, but they're only _one _of the many groups he's after."

"Seriously?"

"Well, he's certainly not going to try and take on the Ministry of magic with only a dozen Death Eaters."

"So you're trying to stop him getting more followers?"

"In a way, yes. We've been trying to recruit our own people but er… Well, we're doing our best," Lupin admitted, sounding weary again.

"The main thing is to try and convince as many people as possible that You-Know-Who really has returned, to put them on their guard," said Bill. "It's proving tricky though."

"Not just 'cause of what the Prophet's saying about you and Cedric, but also because of the Ministry's attitude," Tonks added. "You saw how Fudge reacted after You-Know-Who came back, Harry—he hasn't shifted his position at all. He's absolutely _refusing _to believe it's happened."

"But why?" said Harry desperately. "Why's he being so stupid? If Dumbledore—"

"Ah, well, you've put your finger on the problem," said Mr Weasley with a wry smile. "Dumbledore."

"Fudge is frightened of Dumbledore, you see," said Tonks, sadly. Harry looked to her, incredulous.

_"Frightened_… of Dumbledore?"

"Frightened of what's he's up to," corrected Mr Weasley. "Fudge thinks Dumbledore's plotting to overthrow him—he thinks Dumbledore wants to be Minister of Magic."

"What?!"

"But _of course,_ he doesn't want to be Minister," said Mr Weasley. "Fudge just remembers how everyone was clamouring for him to run after Millicent Bagnold retired."

"Deep down, Fudge knows Dumbledore's much cleverer than he is, a much more powerful wizard, and in the early days of his Ministry he was forever asking Dumbledore for help and advice," said Lupin. "But it seems that he's become fond of power, and much more confident. He loves being Minister for Magic and he's managed to convince himself that he's the clever one and Dumbledore's simply stirring up trouble for the sake of it."

"How can he think that?" said Hermione suddenly and angrily. "How can he think Dumbledore would just make it all up—that Cedric and Harry would make it all up?!"

Cedric suddenly perked up, "Because accepting that Voldemort's back would mean trouble like the Ministry hasn't had to cope before," he said, coming to a realization.

"That's the problem isn't it? The Minister, he just can't face the idea that You-Know-Who's back so he's trying to convince himself and everyone else that Dumbledore, Harry and I, are just trying to _destabilize _him."

"Yes, you're exactly right Cedric," Lupin said, a little surprised. "And it extends even further you see, because while the Ministry insists there is nothing to fear from Voldemort… it's become harder to convince people he's back, especially as they really don't want to believe it in the first place."

"Fudge is doing all he can to disprove, whatever we, and you," Sirius stared pointedly at Harry and Cedric, "...claim and say. Take the Daily Prophet for example—have you noticed that there hasn't been even one little column dedicated to the Dementor attacks in Privet Drive?"

"Er, yeah… yeah actually." Harry said slowly.

"The Ministry's leaning heavily on the Daily Prophet to not report any of what they're calling _'Dumbledore's rumour-mongering'_, so most of the wizarding community are completely unaware anything's happened."

"But even if the Prophet or the Ministry isn't, surely you're telling people, aren't you?" said Harry, looking around Mr Weasley, Sirius, Bill, Lupin and Tonks. "You're letting people know he's back?"

They all smiled humorously.

"Unfortunately, we can't be too forthright about it." Tonk said. "Kingsley, Arthur and I would get _fired _if we ran our mouths off."

"Let's also remember that everyone thinks I'm a mad mass-murderer and the Ministry's put a ten thousand Galleon price on my head! So I can hardly stroll up the street and start handing out leaflets, can I?" said Sirius restlessly.

"And I'm not a very popular dinner guest with most of the community," said Lupin. "It's an occupational hazard of being a werewolf."

"But if none of you are putting the news out that Voldemort is back—"

"Well, who said none of us are putting the news out?" said Sirius. He was in mock shock, as if he was appalled that Harry would say such a thing, which was reasonable—considering that he was sitting in a house that served as headquarters for the anti-Voldemort forefront.

"Why d'you think Dumbledore's in such trouble?" Billy asked. "Haven't you seen the Daily Prophet last week?"

Harry suddenly decided to stop being so selective about which articles to read from now on, "Uh…"

"They're trying to discredit him," said Lupin. "They reported that he'd been voted out of the Chairmanship of the International Confederation of Wizards because he's getting old and losing his grip, but it's not true; he was voted out by Ministry wizards after he made a speech announcing Voldemort's return. They're talking about taking away his Order of Merlin, First Class, too."

"Does he not care about his social status?" Hermione said.

"He said he's fine, as long as they don't take him off the Chocolate Frog Cards." Bill grinned.

"It's not going to funny when he's taken off to Azkaban for defying the Ministry!" said Mr Weasley sharply. Lupin raised his hands.

"In any case, without Dumbledore, the Order doesn't stand a chance, so that's why we've been keeping a low profile. That's why there's no fanfare about our cause in the Prophet. And that's why Ron and Hermione haven't been able to owl you as often," Lupin said pointing to Harry's friends. "There's no way of knowing who or _what _to trust when things are being constantly watched or intercepted outside of this house."

"The Dark Lord is moving in the same way as before, gathering more followers and Death Eaters using blackmail, sabotage, tricks and jinxes, but that's not his only plan. He—" Sirius paused. He, almost nervously, looked to Lupin who gave a slight nod to back.

Sirius took a breath, "We think that he's trying to obtain something, something that he didn't have last time."

"Like what?" Harry asked.

"Like a weapon." Sirius said, and with that last word, the room coalesced with an electric energy; as if there a shiver zipping up and down everyone's spine, or a cold mist that clung about the room —a bell toll that signaled bad omen, something primal that gripped at everyone's chest.

"But he was so powerful before…" whispered Cedric.

Harry didn't notice it before, but Cedric looked so pale. His fists were balled underneath the table, and pressed so tightly that it was only when Harry grabbed his arm that Cedric even noticed how white his knuckles were; and how deeply his nails dug into his palm.

"Yes. That's why such notions are, very, _terrifying_." Sirius replied, staring down at his hands on the table. A silence followed as everyone mulled over what they've just heard.

"W-what kind of weapon could it be?" asked Harry, breaking the tension. "Something… something worse than the Avada Kedava or—?"

"That's enough!"

Everyone looked up to see Mrs Weasley stalk out of the shadows of the doorway, her arms were crossed. She looked furious—

"I want you in bed, _now_, all of you," she said, looking to even Bill and Tonks.

"You can't boss us—" Fred began.

"Watch me," snarled Mrs Weasley. She was trembling slightly as she looked at Sirius. "You've given Harry plenty of information. Any more and you might just as well induct him into the Order straight away."

"Why not?" said Harry quickly. "I'll join, I want to join, I want to fight."

_"No."_

It was not Mrs Weasley who spoke this time, but rather Sirius and Lupin simultaneously.

"The Order is comprised only of overage wizards, wizards who have _left _school." Lupin said, as Fred and George open their mouths. "There are dangers involved of which you have no idea, any of you…" as he trailed off, Lupin turned to Sirius.

"Enough?" he asked quietly. Sirius sighed, and then he nodded.

"Time for bed it seems." he said, giving Harry a subtle look of apology. In defeat and at Mrs Weasley's beckoning, they all left the kitchen, one by one leaving from the table and walking out in the hallway.

As he climbed the stairs, Harry was still reeling from all he had learnt, and more importantly, from all that has been implied.

_A weapon._

He could not even begin to fathom what sort of terrible thing, would have even _Sirius _scared.

Harry followed Mrs Weasley, as she led upstairs, her wand alight.

"I want you all to go straight to bed, no talking," she said as they reached the first landing, "we've got a busy day tomorrow."

She turned to Hermione, "I expect Ginny's asleep so try not to wake her up." she whispered.

"Asleep, yeah right." said Fred in an undertone, after Hermione bade them goodnight and they were climbing to the next floor. "If Ginny's not lying awake waiting for Hermione to tell her everything they said downstairs then I'm a Flobberworm."

"All right, Ron, Harry," said Mrs Weasley on the second landing, pointing them into their bedroom. "Off to bed with you."

"Night." Harry and Ron said to Cedric and the twins.

"Sleep tight," said Fred, winking.

Mr Weasley closed the door as Harry and Ron entered the room. The cards were still scattered around from when they had left, and while a few candles still glowed; the bedroom looked colder and gloomier than it did before, something Harry didn't even think was possible.

They both picked up after themselves quietly, shoving the pooled blankets and curtains in a corner. Harry put on his pajamas and fed a restless Hedwig and Pigwidgeon, while Ron closed their windows firmly.

"Too suspicious if we let you out every night." Ron murmured, walking near to the owls. "I've only had three orders from Dumbledore, so I have to get one right."

Ron then walked over and bolted the door; "Kreacher likes to wander in sometimes," he explained.

Harry was too tired to even ask what a Kreacher was and instead, watched as Ron blew out each candle, before settling under the covers of their beds. Harry lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling.  
His bed wasn't as luxurious as he thought it'd be, he could feel and smell its wisened age, but his blanket was warm; and the way he sank into the mattress coaxed out every bit of discomfort that tensed his body. But as tired as he felt, Harry stayed awake, his head somewhat calm despite the discussions of tonight, almost.. empty. He listened as Ron struggled to sleep in his bed, the bed springs groaning as he turned to look at Harry in darkness; his outline lit by the moonlight filtering in through the grimy window.

"Something wrong?" Harry said, he turned towards him as well. Ron kept his voice quiet as he replied.

"What d'you reckon?" he said. Harry didn't even need to ask what Ron meant.

"Well they didn't tell us much we couldn't have guessed, did they?" he said, thinking of all that had been said downstairs. "I mean, all they've really said is that the Order's trying to stop people joining Vol-"

There was a sharp intake of breath from Ron.

"-demort." said Harry firmly. "When are you going to start using his name? Sirius and Lupin do."

Ron ignored this last comment. "Yeah, you're right," he said, "we already knew nearly everything they told, from using Extendable ears—"

_CRACK!_

"BLOODY H-!"

"Keep your voice down, Ron, or Mum'll be back up here!" a voice hissed.

"You two just Apparated on my knees!"

"It's hard in the dark!" another familiar voice replied.  
As the voices began to shush each other, Harry could only just make out Fred and George's blurred outlines, the old bed springs groaning again as they clambered towards the end of Ron's bed. Harry felt a weight lay gently down at the end of his bed, and with his glasses back on, made out a figure sitting precariously on the edge—as if it was trying to not stand out too much.

Harry felt a sense of deja-vu, "Is that you, Cedric?" he asked.

"Yep, not a Weasley!" Cedric replied cheerfully.

"Mate shh!" Fred said.

"Why couldn't you have apparated liked Cedric did?!" Ron whispered furiously, Harry could see him rubbing his knees.

"He's had _two years _of practice! We've had... two months!" George replied. "It's not like we've been apparating everywhere just to mess with everyone, though that is a tremendous benefit to it."

"At least we're in the right room." Cedric added, and Harry could feel the grin in his voice. Ron muttered under his breath but soon settled down, clambering to sit on the edge of his bed as well so that they all faced each other.

"So, a weapon." George said, finally wondering aloud.

"Something new, finally!"

"And something that could be worse than the killing curse!" Fred whispered eagerly.

"Did you look at Sirius's face when Harry asked that?!"

"But it's impossible right? I mean, what's worse than death?" Ron scoffed, and his brothers began to list the "worst" things one after the other, including Muggle bombs, Slytherin winning the Quidditch Cup and finally (though not limited to), Ginny and her Bat Bogey hexes.

Harry began zone out as the conversation went further, the Weasley brothers bickering about about the possible size, form, function and appearance, and absentmindedly looked around. Cedric caught his eye, not taking part in the conversation as well, reprising the stiff form and curled fists that had been in play in the kitchen. Slowly, Harry moved closer down the bed.

"Are you okay?" he whispered. Cedric's concentrated expression broke as he glanced up. "You've been really quiet, ever since we started talking about the Order and the weapon..."

There was a moment, as something flickered in Cedric's face, "I'm good." he said, and he smiled. Harry raised his eyebrows.

Cedric had taken too long to answer.

"Really, I am! I was just… just thinking."

"About what?"

There was a small pause as Cedric bit his lip. His face flickered once more, and this time Harry could catch it. The hesitance that rested like a quiet nervousness, as Cedric thumbed his knuckles.

"We need to talk." he said very seriously. Harry agreed.

"Yeah, it's been a while since we've done that."

In truth, it had only been four days, but he was very eager to learn all the when, where's, what's, how's and why's that would explain Cedric's presence in Grimmauld; a presence that probably didn't happen until very recently.

"We _can't _right now though." Cedric said, and he glanced at the still arguing Weasley's. "It's not the time or pl-"

CRACK!

Cedric cut himself short as George and Fred abruptly apparated out of the room, the sound of their escape echoing alongside urgent hisses to _"Hide!'_

Suddenly, they heard footsteps outside the door. Rushed and loud, and the door-bolt jolted as if someone tried to swing it open.

A wave of panic flowered within the room.  
Ron made a gargled cry before he flung himself against his bed and burrowed under his blankets, hiding his body entirely underneath.

Cedric only blinked, realizing that he had no time to apparate away, the footsteps already halted and unlocking the latched door, before it slowly creaked open. In hasty desperation, Harry grabbed Cedrics arm and _pulled_, sending them both crashing in his bed; the blanket, caught underneath Cedric's side, and only covering three-quarters of their bodies. Harry's exposed back let moonlight spill into the covers from the window, lighting up Cedric's tense expression as he tried to breathe quietly as possible.

Hovering at the doorway, the door now fully unlocked and open, Mrs Weasley's head popped in, her eyes scanning the room and trying to discern whether the voices she had heard arguing before, were imaginary.

Harry felt his entire body tense what felt like an abnormal length of time. He moved ever so slightly. Backwards and backwards, trying to make enough room between him and Cedric.

Shit.

Harry's breath hitched when he realized that he moved too far, his back now hanging off the bed.

_Shit._

In an effort to try and angle himself, Harry's shoulder slipped off the mattress. Tumbling backwards, Harry closed his eyes; he braced for impact.

_**Shit!**_

Instinctively, Cedric grabbed Harry's arm and then yanked forward, pulling him up and over; the sound of the mattress rustling ever so slightly as Harry realized that he was lying properly on the bed again. There was a moment where he lay stiff, slightly confused over what just happened until he suddenly felt Cedric's arm wrapped around him, guarding him away from the edge, and keeping their bodies pressed together.

"S-Sorry." Harry whispered.

"Careful," Cedric murmured.

_One—  
_Harry kept deathly, still. He took short breaths and without thinking, closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Cedric's chest. That was _too _close of a call.

_Two_—Cedric felt Harry lean into him, and held him tighter, closer; pressing his fingers against his back in an effort to calm him down.

_Three_—So close to his chest, Harry felt Cedric's heartbeat, skipping, thrumming quicker and quicker. Almost like it was spinning, spiraling faster and faster.

_Oh,_ Harry thought.

The fourth second passed.

It was his _own _heart beating so quickly.

He didn't know why he felt embarrassed about that. But then,

Five.

There was a sigh, almost so quiet that Harry thought maybe Ron hadn't closed the window, with the wind whispering through. But then the door shut with a soft click, the bolt locked again, and the footsteps; they made their way upstairs.

Everyone in the room collectively relaxed, the bedsprings groaning as if it had held its breath as well and Harry felt Cedric's grip relax before he quickly sat up, swinging his feet over the edge of the bed. Harry sat up as well.

"Bloody hell, that was scary!" Ron whispered, his head popping out of his blanket.

"Yeah," Harry breathed out. "You alright, Cedric?"

Harry saw Cedric turn back, saw his lips move and utter, but those words didn't get through as he held Cedric's gaze, suddenly realizing in the full light of the moon that there was something new in his eyes, something different. They were still steeled, bright like that night in the infirmary, but strangely tired. Almost as if the steel had been worn, forged by shaky hands. Harry thought about how pale Cedric had turned during the night's conversation. He thought about how tight and almost small, those fists seemed when they balled up under the table. How Cedric's expressions turned from mild interest, realization and then…

"Oh," Harry breathed. "You're scared, aren't you?"

Cedric knew that he wasn't talking about Mrs Weasley.

Hesitance. Uncertainty.

_Fear._

Harry saw each emotion flicker in Cedric's face, before he put on the mask.

"I should leave before she comes back down again." Cedric brushing him off quickly, and he stood up, getting ready to apparate.  
Harry suddenly thought about Cedric sitting alone in his room, reading over the Daily Prophet, reading over lines and lines of snark and wicked words that trashed his family name the way they did to Harry. Only this time, there were other Diggories to worry about. A social status like Dumbledore's that could be demoted. A job like Tonk's or Mr Weasley's that could be lost. Harry's mouth ran dry.

"Are you regretting it? Being with me? Being a Boy Who Lied?" he asked.

Cedric stopped. Harry held his breath.

Of course, _of course_, Cedric was afraid.  
He was near death when he made the promise. Traumatized.

Grateful to Harry, but not _that _grateful.

It's different when you're talking to a reporter, when you're indirectly confronting someone through the papers. All of this, Grimmauld, the Order, it makes it _real_. It makes everything have consequences.

Harry forced himself to count—One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

_Five._

And then Cedric whipped around.

Harry's eyes widened as he looked upon the furious expression on Cedric's handsome face.

"Of course not!" he said, so incredulous that he had returned to his normal speaking voice. And before Ron and Harry could even shush him;

_Crack!_

He apparated away.

There was a brief silence as Harry stayed frozen on his bed. Ron quickly murmured, confused, "Uh.. what was all that about?"

"Nothing. I er.. got it wrong." Harry said. He took off his glasses as Ron stared at him curiously, _So Cedric __**wasn't **__regretting it._

He rustled his hair.

Was he pleased? He didn't know.  
_Cedric looked angry though_.

Harry shook his head, and let himself fall back into the bed.

It smelt like lavender.


	12. Extra: Red

_Crack!_

Cedric stumbled onto the floor. His mind was whirling from the dizziness and from a slight bout of anger that inflamed his chest.

_How could Harry think I regret it? That I would go back on my word!_ he huffed, as he got up, wobbly and swaying on the spot.

"Cedric? Is that you?!" Fred's voice whispered. Cedric steadied himself on the bed post.

"Yeah, it's me." The twins quickly jumped out of their beds, helping Cedric up as he mumbled a slow _"Sorry"_ and something about _"..apparating too fast"._

"I'm guessing Mum didn't find you out?" George said, and Cedric closed his eyes, trying to will the dizziness away.

"Yeah, Harry did some..." and he paused and sighed. "Some very _quick _thinking."

"Lucky he saved you again eh?" Fred said.

"Mm."

"Are you alright mate?"

"Y-yeah I'm just…"

"Lumos!" and bright light flashed in Cedric's face, blinding him a little.

"Hey!"

"Shh! Quieten down Diggory, the doctors will expect you now."

"It's _inspect_."

"Yeah, yeah.." George shoved his wand closer. "Well the dizziness is definitely because you Apparated but… why're you so red? Are you running a fever or something?"

Cedric pressed his knuckles to his cheek. Bafflingly, his face was very warm.

"I have no idea…" he said.

"Something happen?"

Cedric thought back; Harry... was a lot _stronger _than he expected.

His arm had latched around his waist pushed him into the bed, the blankets piled on top of his body. Harry shushed Cedric with a finger to his lips as the sound of the door creaked open. Someone was there, breathing by the doorway...

Cedric hoped his own breathing wasn't too loud.

He looked forward and saw Harry inching further away, bit by bit—he wanted to warn him not to go too far but too late—Harry began to fall and without thinking, Cedric had thrust his hand out and yanked his wrist, pulling him closer until his entire body was within the borders of his own arm.

A murmured _"Sorry,"_ and Cedric couldn't remember what he replied back because suddenly there was this _gentle_, warm pressure; Harry having pressed his forehead against his chest. Cedric tried to press against Harry gently too, finding the divet of his back and trailing up and down every few centimeters. He knew that Harry wasn't much smaller than himself but at that moment, there was an urge to protect him, those wide green eyes that screwed up tight, the hand that curled around his shirt, the face that hesitated to even breathe.

Even now Cedric could feel the tightness, the nervous still, but also the warmth, the press, the scent of chamomile and the weight of Harry's hands and—

"Oh! You're going redder!"

"Mate, are you actually sick?"

Cedric blinked back. He shoved away George's wand away.

"—'m fine! Let's just go to sleep." he said, feeling his way around until at last he fell into his bed, vaguely hearing George and Fred say goodnight.

Lying on his bed, Cedric cupped his face. _Still red._

He was blushing.


	13. Pancake Talk

Cedric woke suddenly in cold sweat, choking on his own breath, a stream of images flashing in and out of his head.

Blood dripped down a limp hand. A tombstone wrapped in rope. Dug up graves with empty coffins and Death Eaters that encircled with their warped, smiling masks. Then a green light, glowing stronger and stronger until he swore that his whole body burned. The light all too bright, the glow, the searing heat; all of that brought him back to Grimmauld, where he lay hunched over the bed, clinging at his throat in an effort to muffle the coughs and the gagging, as his eyes watered and his chest heaved.

Cedric clenched at the blankets until his breath came easier—waiting for when his heart no longer seized, and his body was empty of the fit—the small whine that built in his mind eventually fading, as he heard the twins rolling around in their beds. Sweating and nauseous, he wiped the drool away and gulped down a cup of water he kept on his nightstand, breathing—_in, out_—shaky.

Forcing himself focus, Cedric drifted to the window, watching the grey sky and the fogged outline of terraced buildings and chimney tops; some smoking but most empty, their windows curtained off and rooms shrouded in that early morning darkness. The world was still, mostly asleep. But Cedric could hardly do the same now.

While the scent of lavender incense lulled him, it was not enough to call him back to bed, the thought of falling back into night terrors too uneasy for Cedric; too possible of a possibility. Instead he took his now empty cup and crept out the bedroom door, and made his descent downstairs.

As he stepped, almost fumbling in the dim light, Cedric became acutely aware of how his chest ached and how his head was strewn in a mess but thank god; he couldn't remember much of the nightmare. The dreams, though almost daily, eluded him every single time. Even the remnants that flashed through his head were gone, having slipped away in a matter of minutes, far beyond his reach. He could only guess that he was in the graveyard again, or some form of it; though it would be too hard to tell on days like this.

Cedric rubbed his neck. There was only one thing on his mind; last night.

He could still remember the way his insides churned, how the words, the conversation they had with Sirius, Remus, Tonks and Bill; roped around him until he couldn't breathe, stuffed, taut and cornered. No one else at the table seemed to feel the same. He didn't even need to look, to know that Fred and George were out-of-their-minds excited. That their brother Ron would be a little bit less so but still shining, still more eager than hesitant, and Hermione would be the exact same; fascinated, and—based on what McGonagall's told him—probably already calculating and hypothesizing about the weapon as they continued talking. But _Harry?_

Cedric sighed aloud.  
Harry was… a lot calmer than Cedric thought he'd be.

When they owled each other, he had always read a sense of frantic in Harry's letters. Disappointment when there wasn't much Cedric could report on, and that slight loneliness, when he'd would write _'Hermione and Ron haven't been able to write to me this week'. _Of course it was just a slight, an assumption of an echo; Cedric never knew whether he read it for sure. But when Harry arrived last night—when he, Fred and George listened in to Harry's reunion with Ron and Hermione behind the door—he confirmed it—

There was a hard edge to Harry's voice when he began to yell, like his words were serrated, splintering wood and melting cauldrons, there was seething. Like a fire in his gut. Like every word was spat with smoke and lapping magma; like Harry's head was curled with gunpowder and some kind of festered rot. It happened again in the staircase. The way he stalked off, like a switch flipped at the back of his neck. And how his eyes glazed yet burnt brighter, his face twisted, and everything about him felt coiled and tight. Cedric was half-afraid that he'd be smacked as soon as he turned Harry around back then. It was unsettling, intense.

And yet Cedric just couldn't leave him alone.

The little voice of reason would scratch at the back of his head, and it spoke even now, asking _'Why?'_

_'Why are you so attached?'_

And maybe it seemed so obvious to some wandering passerby, but Cedric knew better than to lean on the excuse; he knew that it was something beyond the promises he made that night, past the graveyard and past the infirmary.

In the last few months, _yes_, he had read frantic, he had read loneliness and a specific sort of yearning in Harry's letters. But there was also something… _soft_, in the writing. Wisping like perfume, there was someone behind the words, who would send lavender flowers and incense, someone beside Cedric's own parents; who would ask about his dreams and well-being. Last night, it was Harry's hand that comforted him. It was Harry's quiet voice that asked if he was alright, that noticed that he was even being _weird_. And that _stupid question_...

He even worries about things like that.

Cedric shook his head. He was no longer angry, yet he still couldn't fathom why, _why,_ Harry would ask _that _of all things?

There was a veil. A light that shone so brightly behind Harry's figure that it hid his face. The Boy Who Lived. Yet he was just, _Harry_. And from what Cedric's seen… there was simply, much, much _more _to him.

Cedric continued down the stairs, stepping through and murmuring to himself absentmindedly when he caught the attention of one particular person who had heard his footsteps. Before he could turn the corner, a hand tugged onto Cedrci's arm and promptly whipped him right around.

"H-hey!" a familiar voice said. Cedric found himself facing a slightly sleepy Harry, still in his pajamas, no glasses on his face and with a rather glorious bedhead.

"Oh!" Cedric gasped, lowering an arm that instinctively covered his bare chest, "You're not Mrs Weasley!"

"Oh er—... Sorry to disappoint you?"

"No, I-.. is something wrong?" Cedric watched as Harry fidgeted. It looked like it was hard for him to look at his face.

"Look I'm…" he started, "I just wanted to apologize for last night. I'm really sorry."

_Huh?_

"Huh?"

"When I asked if you _regretted _lying to the Prophet, I.. I'm sorry, I didn't know that it would offend you."

"Oh!" Cedric said, "Right, that…" He took a moment to think, "Yeah, why did you ask that?"

And at Cedric's question, Harry looked a little pained. He fidgeted again, looking away and back again.

"Can we talk in the kitchen?" Harry said. "I'll—I'll make pancakes."

Cedric opened his mouth slightly, surprised. He couldn't help the smile that crept up.

"Let me just… let me get a shirt," he said and he rushed up the stairs, throwing on the first thing he could snag from a still unpacked suitcase. Going back down, he felt a little disappointed when he saw the Harry had tamed his bedhead, the hair patted down and smoothed. But Harry only needed to smile for Cedric to forget; the prospect of a sweet breakfast putting a skip in his step as he followed Harry downstairs.

The pan sizzled as Harry scooped some batter in.

"Didn't I say _I _was cooking?" he asked, grabbing a spatula off the rack. Beside him Cedric cracked another egg into a second bowl of pancake mix.

"I like to help. Especially if it's a meal I'm eating." Cedric replied.

"No wonder you were sorted into Hufflepuff,"

"Is that discrimination?" Cedric mused, he began to mix the batter. "I feel like it is.."

"I meant it as a compliment though—"

Cedric gasped, "I didn't know you could do that!"  
In response, Harry gave a particularly hard stare that made Cedric erupt in laughter.

"Really though, you never seem to take any of my compliments well!" he said, "Or is it just because they're compliments from _me?"_

"'Course not, I just…" Harry flipped the pancake. He heard Cedric say _'nice' _when it landed and sizzled on the pan. "People just don't normally compliment me on stuff like my hair or say ... the other things that you've said." _'Or do the other things that you've done,'_ he wanted to add but he held his tongue.

"I'm sure you'll get used to it," Cedric said.

"You're not gonna keep complimenting my hair, are you?"

Harry then, suddenly groaned at Cedric grinned at him; a mischievous smile complete with a half-raised eyebrow as he tried his best to cackle but in quietest manner possible.

"I don't think they'll hear you if you go full Malfoy," Harry sighed, looking up. Cedric scooped another ladle-full of pancake in.

"Well even the walls have ears here, Harry," said Cedric, cautiously. Mrs Black's piercing shrieks suddenly rushed back into both of their memories.

"How long have you been here?" Harry asked, stacking another pancake on the plate. "You don't seem as used to her screams as the others did."

"I came the morning I got your last letter. So maybe three, four days before last night?"

"And you didn't write to me?"

"Well before I could even ask, Sirius came out of his Animagus form to say that you'd be at Grimmauld soon,"

Harry stopped, surprised, "Sirius revealed himself to you on your first day?"

"Well I don't think he could've kept it up for very long."

"But you weren't surprised? That _Sirius Black _transfigured right in front of your eyes?" Cedric scraped the bowl for one last ladle-full of batter.

"Oh no—I definitely was. The adorable Snuffles that I've been petting the entire day was actually an full-grown adult man—I was pretty horrified! But Mr Weasley explained things really quickly, and I know now that he isn't _really _a mass murderer, it was the one who..."

Cedric paused, and for a brief second he froze, ladle mid-air. Harry waited until Cedric shrugged it off, carefully scooping the last of the mix into the pan. His hands were trembling.

"It was the man who killed me, in the graveyard." Cedric said quietly and Harry let his own voice drop as well.

"Have you been having nightmares recently?" he asked.

"Had one this morning actually. It's why I woke up so early,"

"Do you remember...?"

"No, no… I don't really absorb anything, mentally but my body... I still physically er—_react_."

Harry flipped the last pancake, before turning off the stove. He moved away from the oven and leant against the kitchen counter, closer to Cedric, facing out towards the dining table.

"Before—way back in the infirmary—you said that you were knocked out." Harry said. "You were unconscious, and you had an out-of-body experience… Why are you now saying now that Peter killed you?"

Cedric gave a heavy sigh. He bent over, leaning against the kitchen counter as well but facing away from Harry, toward the window.

"I don't know. It's just… a feeling I have. Or that I _used to _have, when I remembered my dreams. There was one in particular, actually, I-.. I had it a lot before you, er, started sending me the lavender. But it wasn't bad or scary or anything—" he crossed his arms— "That's why I remember it so well. It was just.. just really _strange_."

"Can I ask what it was about?" Harry asked. Cedric threw his head back and took a sharp breath.

"Uh well... it was still in the graveyard—they all are, in some form or another—and you were fighting V-... You-Know-Who."

"Yeah?"

"And in the dream, when you're fighting Him, it's always in slow motion. Like its blurred to the background, everything… the spells, the ground, you, the Death Eaters and Him. The only people that moved normally were the erm, _ghosts _from his wand; the old Muggle man, Bertha Jorkins, and your parents. They were the only vivid or _real _presences."

"They'd say things, progressively. Like in the first one dream, or first version of this dream I had, it was the old man who would say that I was so young—too young to die—"

Harry clenched his jaw.

He agreed.

"And in the second, it was Bertha. She'd say stuff about how Barty was alive, and how you Harry, were really _wringing _You-Know-Who's neck in the fight," Cedric chuckled.

"And my parents?" Harry asked. Cedric's smile faded away. "Did they say anything?"

"Well your dad didn't talk to me, he was busy with you. But your mum…"

"Yeah?" Harry said, and he looked at Cedric earnestly. "What did she say?"

"Only that I needed to go back. That she'd... get me to go home with you as well."

Harry's eyes widened a little, "So she brought you—?"

"I... I don't…" Cedric scratched his head. "I don't think so. If this dream was real... if it happened... I don't think that those ghosts could be any more than echoes of all those lives that He took. It wouldn't make any sense otherwise."

"Right,"

"But it's not like those people _weren't _your parents, Harry." Cedric added quickly. "They were for sure, I just don't know if my _resurrection_—if that's what it was—was entirely your mums doing. They... we didn't seem to have any real power besides being able to distract Him, otherwise we would've helped you, right?"

Cedric was right. There was no way of knowing and even then, the ghosts that Harry encountered in Hogwarts—Peeves, Headless Nick—they were bereft of magic, just presences in the halls. Even if all those souls were trapped in Voldemort's wand, it wouldn't have been likely for them to retain any wizard power to restore Cedric's life. And again, even then, a wizard able to attempt _necromancy _would be a stretch.

Cedric noticed Harry noddong glumly, "Look I'm just spouting things," he said hastily, "It could be that they were victims of really dark, really advanced or really _ancient _magic. I'm more likely to be wrong!"

Harry gave a meek smile.

"Did… Did she say anything else? My mum? In your dream?" he asked. Cedric hesitated. Harry looked straight into his eyes, and saw the grey caught in conflict, in turmoil.

"Please?" he asked.

"It seemed like she wanted me to take care of you, if I could," Cedric said finally, and he closed his eyes like he was preparing for something. "Your mum told me to keep you safe."

Harry felt himself break into a cynical sort of smile, "I doubt that would happen, even with you at my back Cedric."

"Well, I told her I was going to try, it was all she asked," Cedric replied and he looked down at his hands. They were entwined again, the knuckles digging into each gap between his fingers. "I figured I owe you that much, and her as well if she did… _bring _me back."

Harry thought for a moment.

"Are all your dreams about that night, Cedric? Are they always about...death?"

"Yes," Cedric breathed out, and he sat back, hands pressed against the counter and expression resigned. "Every single one that I can remember, even the ones that are a little different—they're basically tattooed to my memory at this point—the voice, telling the man to kill me. The green light. The darkness. Sometimes I'm in a coffinless grave, like I've been buried alive. Sometimes _you're _the one that dies... Erm, it gets worse if I go any further than that…"

"I'm sorry, I didn't want to—"

"It's fine. I need to…" he took a breath, "I _do _need to talk about it, I think, and I would gladly do so with you but,"

"Not right now?" Harry asked. Cedric crossed his arms.

"No," he smiled sadly, "...not right now."

Harry didn't know why, but his chest began to ache when he saw Cedric's smile. The back molars of his teeth grinded against each other, and he clenched his fists and and his jaw—there was an urge to comfort, an urge to mend and to grab and to heal, but he didn't know _the words;_ didn't know what actions would fix the hurt that bled out of Cedric's every movement.  
Ever since Harry met him, Cedric had been always a confident person. He was kind and humble and handsome and all those other praises and things that people would say—but what Harry understood most of all, was that Cedric Diggory was a _self-assured _person. The entire air around him, the allure, the pull that his presence seemed to command; it was all founded and precariously balanced on the way Cedric seemed almost so… _effortless_.

As if the way he did things, the way he would approach and be approached, as if it was all in his nature to be kinder, to be stronger, to be **better**. And Harry had to admit, it had always comforted him, this self-assuredness.  
If he fell in the tournament, Cedric would have surely replaced him. He even would've fitted better to the tale of bravery and courage that everyone was trying to spin around them, when Harry was alone in the infirmary, Cedric was there; forging a bond, founding the campaign.

He had Cedric as another Boy Who Lied, someone willing to face all the backlash and shame, simply because the _truth _was more important, and because he wouldn't willingly leave Harry alone. These things came about because it was _Cedric _doing the pushing. And all of it was seemingly rewarded, or at least could be traced back to that moment when he was miraculously resurrected, when he pulled away from death's three minutes in and started breathing—in _that moment_, Cedric had become the _only _other person that survived Voldemort; seemingly proving, to at least Harry and those in the Order, that he was the universe's other favourite person. A storybook hero, Hogwarts blessed Champion.

But it wasn't true.  
Cedric wasn't an upgraded Harry. He wasn't a fairytale prince or a baby born from the stars and favoured by some god. He's just a boy—

Three years older?

Yes.

Strong, and good, and noble?

_Of course._

But he's just a boy, just like Harry.

A boy waging war against a world that he can't fit into anymore, pitted against the most feared wizard alive—under the heat of the media, voted class dunce on international parchment; already put through enough danger once, before being potentially endangered again—how could you _not_ be afraid in such shoes?

Cedric didn't have the time to get used to it, no in the the way Harry and his friends had. And even then, Ron and Hermione still refused to use Voldemort's real name.  
Cedric had been thrust into a life he didn't ask for, just like Harry. Plagued by nightmares, having already died once before becoming more likely than most teenage boys his age to die again; just before his life could even start.

How could you bear that?

Harry hugged his arms, "You know how I asked you last night, whether you regretted being with me?"

"Yes?"

"I thought—I really did and I still do now—I thought that maybe you were regretting everything. That maybe you were second-guessing your role in this." Harry said, gesturing around the house. Cedric looked at him intently.

"Why do you think that?" he asked, gentle.

"Because you're _scared_, aren't you?" Harry said, and it wasn't really a question nor an accusation. Rather it came out, an accurate measure of the truth. So blunt and straightforward that Cedric didn't know how to reply, taking only a moment, but still a moment too long of silence to consider how he should answer.

"Of course… I'm afraid." he admitted.

Finally.

Harry thought back to the image of Cedric's pale face, the nail marks on his palms. The way he was out-of-focus, shaken. He thought about what kind of dreams Cedric was having— being buried alive, killed over and over again. There were red scratches on his neck and arms this morning, and his grey eyes suffocated any undesirable emotion; Cedric put on a mask that hid and covered and guarded like high walls around his heart.

Harry couldn't bear it.

"Then, why do you try _so hard _to hide it?" he asked, and Cedric's face dropped a little. "Why do you insist that you're fine? Why do you tell me _'later' _when we're talking now?"

"I-"

"If you regret it, it's as easy as telling the Prophet that I bewitched you into saying everything. You could easily wash your hands of this _entire mess_, Dumbledore would even help you!"

"Harry.."

"But if you look at me like you did last night, if you get _angry _that I'm making these assumptions and if you truly don't regret _anything _then tell me what's wrong!"

He stood up properly, bare feet on the kitchen tile, "We're taking on the world, and you're just '_fine' _about it? You've told me that you've been getting nightmares for _months _and yet the only thing I can do is send you flowers to smell; you won't tell me anything! I-.. I just want to help you," Harry's mouth went dry, his hands—previously coiled— now loose, "We're a team now, a-aren't we? Aren't we friends?"

There was a brief silence that crashed upon the two. And as it dragged longer and longer, Harry grew nervous, unable to read the expression of Cedric's face. He suddenly thought that maybe he was too loud. And maybe he went too far, and maybe this wasn't the best way to go about it with Cedric, he should've been more co_nsiderate! Why isn't Hermione and Ron here at times like th-_Whumpf!

Cedric body suddenly slumped over and collided with Harry's own, arms wrapping around his torso, the full extent of his body weight leaning against him.

"Are you alright?!" Harry asked, panicky.

"Yeah," he heard him say.

"I didn't… Did I go too far?"

"I'm _hugging _you, mate." _Oh, _ "I'm grateful."

"You are?"

"You said we're _friends_—" Oh. Harry blushed. Before he could figure out why or get another word in, he felt Cedric squeeze him.

"Let me speak clearly; I don't regret _anything_," he said, "—even if I knew properly what I was getting myself into, I would've still talked to you at the infirmary. I would've still told the Prophet the same things, I would've still told everyone else the same, _exact _things…"

"O-Okay."

"And yeah, I am scared. _Terrified_. 'Pissing my pants,' as any normal person would say," Cedric said, and Harry wrapped his arms around and pressed his hands against his back.

"I'm scared of what's coming. How it'll affect my family, my friends. The nightmares and telling people, especially _you_, about them."

"What?! Why?"

"Most people don't believe us right now. Even the ones who say they do, like my parents," Cedric said, and it was the first time Harry had heard him sound so bitter. "I'm just so _used _to worried faces, Harry. Cho, my parents. Everytime I bring up my nightmares, they look like they want to send me off to St Mungos."

And then he paused, "But _you _believe me. You always do. I thought you'd think I was crazy, if I talked about your mum or _dying_."

"'Course I'd believe you," said Harry, comfortingly. "You can tell me things more often you know. And you can go into as much detail as you'd like, I'd probably prefer that."

"I want to, but I don't know _how_," Cedric sighed again, and his body slunk even further against Harry. "It's difficult."

"Then why don't we start now?" Harry suggested. "Maybe the pancakes could help?"

Cedric began to laugh. Harry could feel his body thrown into it, jerking as it bubbled outside him.

"Hermione and Ron say that food has always helped me!" said Harry said.

"Of course! Of course!" Cedric offered and Harry leant in and glowered so he couldn't see, "But you might be right… Maybe a meal and a friend would help."

As he settled down, both laughter and body quieting, Harry took advantage of the lightened silence, "You know, it's okay if it's difficult and if you're scared, and even if you ever regret it," he said, kind, soft. "Just tell me. If you'd be alright with it, _talk _to me. We only have each other right in these bizarre circumstances. I want to be here for you."

Cedric let go and straightened with a tight expression, crumpled, as if he was about to cry. No anger, no stress. Just an uneven sort of smile pushing his cheeks, his eyes bright and his hands no longer entwined in that nervous habit.

"Thank you," he whispered, like if he said it too loud, someone would steal it away from him. He let out a small breath that he never realized he was holding until now.

Harry offered his hand, and Cedric grasped it, "Promise yeah? No hiding."

"If we have these pancake talks more often, then I agree," Cedric said.

Harry laughed.

"It's a deal!"


	14. Sidenote

It was subtle. Barely noticed by anyone really.

For Ginny, she only _just _caught the way Harry and Cedric had started to stick closer to each other. Their seats were inches apart when they sat at the dinner table. Their bodies and feet angled just that tiny bit toward each other even when they weren't the ones locked in conversation. As Ginny looked at them from time to time, she wondered how they had managed to get so close so fast.

For Fred and George, they noticed how much less, they jolted awake in the middle of the night; Cedric's gibberish sleep-talk either quietening down or no longer happening as the days went on. Sometimes when they woke up, they'd find Cedric fast asleep, his lavender incense still lit but their bedroom window also cracked open, letting air in. They figured that it was all due to some potion Cedric kept—a cup of something sweet that would often sit on his bedside table each night and always emptied by the next morning; but they had yet to figure out that the 'potion' was actually chamomile tea.  
They also had yet to notice that it was _Harry_, who always at the stove, boiling the kettle in late evenings.

In a similar fashion, Hermione would catch a whiff of lavender whenever Cedric passed, and would wonder to herself why the name of the flower came so quickly to her head—it was _so fresh _on her mind, like she had used it recently… But she couldn't recall ever reading a single herbology book this summer. It began to trouble her so much that in the time she spent thinking about it, she didn't even remember all the self-care advice that she had given to Harry weeks ago while on the other hand, Ron could not forget the list of things that he and Hermione came up with for Harry. Just in case. It was also the most the reading he'd ever done out of school after all, and how could he overlook such information after hours spent scouring his mum's blimmin' _Wizards Weekly_ magazines!

Ron knew that Harry would make two cups of tea, one for himself and then for Cedric each night, but he brushed it off. _Of course they're close_. They had gone through a lot together.

They're just trying to deal with it now.  
But then again, Cedric _did _spend a lot of his time in their bedroom, the three of them playing cards or both Harry and Cedric teaming up to try and beat Ron at chess (Cedric somehow did it once, but hadn't been able to do it since). It was a little odd and for some reason, something twitched in Ron's head, like a cog that didn't have the rest of the machine to spin. And so he wouldn't quite connect the dots until much later, coming to find Harry's new habit of playing around with his hair before they went downstairs for breakfast each morning; a little different but nothing else indicative. (Though in all fairness, nobody would figure out fully, not even Harry.)

It was just _too _subtle. Rarely noticed by any of Harry's friends, but..

It was different for the adults.

For Mrs Weasley, she was surprised to come down to the kitchen and see Harry and Cedric already up, a large breakfast of pancakes made and kept warm in the oven while they stood at the counter and—_oh._

She watched as Cedric enveloped Harry into a hug, his body leaning into Harry's arms while he wrapped his own like a cross against Harry's back. Mrs Weasley couldn't see Harry's expression, but Cedric's was in plain and unfiltered view; his eyes screwed tight as he talked, mouth hesitant, stuttering. Arms constricting around Harry but careful not to wrap too tightly.

Fred, George, Ron and even Hermione and Ginny had always talked about how perfect Cedric was, gushing or groaning about how princely he acted. But that was not the boy in front of her, he clung to Harry, desperate, tired; a normal child. And it hurt Mrs Weasley in a way she thought she'd gotten used to, so much that she wanted to leap from the door and hug Cedric herself; but she just couldn't get it in her to leave the shadows.

There was just something about the air around them, like it was politely asking that no one interrupt. The sight of Harry and Cedric holding onto each other with all their might… she couldn't interfere with _that_. And so she kept quiet and kept watching, and she was glad she did because soon and very suddenly, Harry _laughed—_

A real laugh that made him turn and bend, a little, towards the floor; bubbling and high-pitched like he couldn't _quite _get it out or hold it in. Mrs Weasley wondered how long it had been since Grimmauld had heard such genuine laughter, the kind that brightened your face and made him look younger than the hills—the kind that made Cedric flush with pleasure; obviously he made the joke.  
She didn't wonder how they got from emotional hugging to laughter, it distilled the room and like a charm she felt her spirit raise and a smile on her face and in all honesty—

_Ah_.

Mrs Weasley could only sigh, turning and giving them a few minutes more. She wondered how long it had been since she had heard Harry laugh, so much and as soft and as beautiful as this.

For Sirius, he was hit by a sense of deja vu as he watched Cedric during cleaning days. At first it was out of caution, but then it morphed into a strange intrigue, not because of any peculiar methods that Cedric used to clear the walls of cobwebs and spiders—no, Sirius was more interested in how Cedric seemed to gravitate towards Harry, the both of them always somehow meeting and eventually standing side by side even when they had put into opposite corners of the room. Like a loop, they'd always become too occupied in their own conversations and so frequently caught in their own distraction that Harry would consistently mop only one spot of the floor, while Cedric feathered the same already clean wall, half a dozen times.

It was so _strange_.

Like watching some sort of magnet, slowly, being drawn towards another. A dance that pulled, the music tucked underneath their subconscious, but—

_Ah._

Sirius realized what the deja vu was. His eyes widened and he didn't know what to think, instead turning around and leaving the room as quietly he could; his heart going _thud thud thud. _

Oh. It was still _there_. A dated choreo that he knew better than his own name, Harry and Cedric's dance beating to the rhythm of an old song Sirius kept thrummed in his heart.

It was the same one that he and Remus had danced to, long ago.


	15. The War Against The Black House

It had been a couple of days since they started cleaning the drawing-room.  
Harry no longer needed to wipe the dust off his glasses as the shelves became emptier and emptier, the floor filled with large sacks of rubbish and stored heirlooms, cabinets stacked and armchairs—no longer wheezing it's own insides— moved to the far wall.

Cleaning felt like a war in this room. Everyone's hands eventually reddened from scrubbing, layered smells of fix-it potions and masking fragrances grew hard to wash off each evening. Casualties were taken when Cedric and Fred—so affected by the scents—tried to work with toothpaste under their noses while Ginny had to stop completely; a constant rate of sneezes erupting from her direction every half-second despite having a heavily bundled face.  
On a separate occasion, Ron disappeared for _two hours_ after he lifted a mat and discovered that a multitude of spiders were living underneath the 12-inch polyester and wool mesh, their spindly legs all spilling out as soon as daylight hit the abode. Harry eventually found his friend sitting in the kitchen with Sirius, who had made him several cups of tea.

While it was hard work at first, in time they soon grew satisfied to see how it paid off; the walls having returned to their olive green color and actual sunlight streaming into the room, the space clear of the strewn junk—crumpled papers, broken down furniture, rusty jewelry and tattered paintings—and it's corners free of low-hanging cobwebs.

Now it was just the finishing touches as Harry wrapped a cloth around the bottom half of his face, watching Hermione and Ginny carried in large boxes that contained numerous spray-bottles, which were filled with some sort-of black liquid.

He picked a bottle up and carefully examined it.

"It's Doxycide," someone explained and Harry looked behind to see Mrs Weasley, pointing at the long, moss green velvet curtains that were buzzing as though swarming with invisible bees. "I've never seen an infestation this bad! What has that house-elf been doing for the last ten years?!"

Hermione's face was half-concealed by a tea towel but Harry distinctly saw her throw a reproachful look at Mrs Weasley.

"Kreacher's really old, he probably couldn't manage —"

"You'd be surprised what Kreacher can manage when he wants to, Hermione," said Sirius, who had just entered the room carrying a bloodstained bag of what appeared to be dead rats.

"I've just been feeding Buckbeak," he added, in reply to Harry's enquiring look. "I keep him upstairs in my mother's bedroom. Anyway… this writing desk…"

Sirius dropped the bag onto an armchair and walked around the cabinet Mrs Weasley had moved into the corner. As he bent over the cabinet shook, quick but a little too violently for anyone to miss or ignore, even if they weren't looking.

"Well Molly, I'm pretty sure this _is _a Boggart," said Sirius, peering through the keyhole, "but you're right, perhaps we ought to let Mad-Eye have a shifty at it before we let it out— knowing my mother, it could be something much worse… "

"Right you are, Sirius," said Mrs Weasley.

It was rather irking to hear them talk. They both spoke in such alien, polite tones that it felt a completely new dialect of English, a language that kept their voices so light, so careful and delicate that it could've frosted several cupcakes. Harry and the others had spent enough time with this strangeness, it only made everything more obvious and all the more clear what weighed so heavily in Sirius and Mrs Weasley's heads.

But soon and thankfully, dashing the awkward air, a loud, clanging bell sounded from downstairs—followed at once by the cacophony of screams and wails.

"I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!" said Sirius exasperatedly, hurrying out of the room. They heard him thundering down the stairs as Mrs Black's screeches echoed through the house once more:

"STAIN'S OF DISHONOUR, FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BLOOD TRAITORS, CHILDREN OF FILTH!"

Cedric quickly shut the door much to Harry's regret—he couldn't hear any of the conversation that might've been exchanged downstairs—while Mrs Weasley very quickly ordered them about, flipping through the pages of Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests and shouting _"George, move the chair there"'_s and _"Ginny, stay away from the curtains"_ and _"Please Hermione, just let Crookshanks out!"._

A few minutes later, they had spread out into a makeshift firing line facing the windows, Mrs Weasley slightly in front; encouraging them to be trigger-happy with their bottles of Doxycide as they sprayed the room at varying speeds.

Harry, who had been squeezing hesitantly and almost lazily, had been spraying only a few seconds when a fully-grown Doxy came soaring out of a fold in the material, shiny beetle-like wings whirring, tiny needle-sharp teeth bared, it's fairy-like body covered with thick black hair and it's four tiny fists clench with fury. Thankfully—or rather unfortunately for itself—it flew straight at Harry's nozzle and froze midair, falling with a loud _thunk!_ to the floor and it's small body covered in the little black droplets of Doxycide spray. Careful to still be gentle, Harry plucked the Doxy from the floor and dropped it into the bucket beside his feet.

"Fred, what are you doing?" Mrs Weasley suddenly said. "Spray that at once and throw it away!"

Harry looked over and saw Fred holding a struggling Doxy in his hand. He promptly sprayed it in the face, causing it to faint, and made a show of throwing it into the bucket; but as soon as Mrs Weasley turned, he pocketed it with a wink. Beside Harry, Cedric crept up.

"They've been wanting to experiment with Doxy venom for their Skeeving Snackboxes." he said under his breath.

Spraying two more Doxy's, George came over and quietly muttered, "_Skiving _Snackboxes Cedric, get it right!"

"What are Skiving Snackboxes?" Harry asked, just out of the corner of his mouth.

"Range of sweets to make you ill," George whispered, keeping a wary eye on Mrs Weasley's back. "Not seriously ill, mind, just ill enough to get you out of a class when you feel like it. Fred and I have been developing them this summer. They're double-ended, color-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the Puking Pastilles, you throw up. Moment you've been rushed out of the lesson for the hospital wing, you swallow the purple half—"

"—which restores you to full fitness, enabling you to pursue the leisure activity of your own choice during an hour that would otherwise have been devoted to unprofitable boredom.' That's what we're putting on the adverts, anyway," whispered Fred, who had edged over out of Mrs Weasley's line of vision and was no sweeping a few stray Doxy's from the floor and adding them to his pocket.

"Yeah, I'm going to have to pass on testing this time," Cedric said firmly.

"_Testing?" _Harry said, eyes wide.

"Alongside Fred and I, Cedric here has graciously lent us his own body for the past few days—for research purposes, of course."

"And, what have you found out?"

"Erm.. well none of us can stop puking for long enough to swallow the purple end." George admitted.

"But!" Fred said, jumping in. "The Fainting Fancies, the Nosebleed Nougat are both basically functional and more pleasant to experience than we realized."

"Plus the results are great! Mum thought we'd been duelling... "

In unison, the four boys swivelled their heads slightly to look at Mrs Weasley who was quite busy, advising Ron on how to firmly hold the bottle in his hand.

"Jokeshop's still on, then?" Harry muttered, pretending to adjust the nozzle on his spray.

"Well, we haven't had a chance to get premises yet," said Fred, dropping his voice even lower as Mrs Weasley mopped her brow with her scarf before returning to the attack, "So we're running it as a mail-order service at the moment. We put advertisements in the Daily Prophet last week."

"All thanks to your kindness, Harry," said George, "And don't fret … Mum hasn't got a clue about anything! She stopped reading the Daily Prophet, since it just kept telling lies about you two and Dumbledore."

Harry grinned. He felt strangely proud that the tournament prize money was being used in this way.

"And you, a Hogwarts Prefect and a Champion, are _okay _with this?" Harry asked, glancing at Cedric.

He gave a slight shrug.

"I did tell you to do whatever with the money… Besides, it's either that I can _sort-of _control their movements now or let them loose and be reporting about it later. I know full well, I can't stop anything this point," Cedric said, and he shook his spray bottle with a wry grin.

"Besides, the people want what the people want!" he said, but it was too loud; Mrs Weasley whipping around with a dangerous expression on her face. The four boys promptly halted in their conversation and muffled laughter as they dispersed in opposite directions.

The de-Doxying of the curtains took most of the morning.  
It was past midday when Mrs Weasley finally removed her protective scar, sank into a sagging armchair and sprang up again with a cry of disgust, having sat on the bag of dead rats. The curtains were no longer buzzing; they hung limp and damp from the intensive spraying. At the foot of them unconscious Doxy's lay crammed in the bucket beside a bowl of their black eggs, at which Crookshanks was now sniffing and Fred and George were shooting covetous looks.

As they crept towards the bucket, the clanging doorbell rang again.

"It's Mundungus!" Hermione cried as she peered through the window. "Oh but… why's he brought all those cauldrons?"

Everyone looked over at Mrs Weasley.

"Stay here," she said firmly, snatching up a bag of rats as Mrs Black's screeches started up again from down below. "I'll bring up some sandwiches."

"Ron wasn't he talking to you about picking up dodgy cauldron's at dinner the other night?" Hermione asked. Everyone gathered behind her and watched as Mundungus tried to heave a large sack—oddly shaped as if a bunch of dodgy cauldrons had just been stuffed inside—up the steps.

"Blimey! Mum won't like that…" Fred said, making his way over to the door. As true to his words, when he opened the door, there was an explosion of sound from downstairs.

"WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN GOODS!" All of them could hear exactly what Mrs Weasley was shouting at the top of her lungs.

"Ah, I _so _love hearing Mum shouting at someone else!" said Fred, with a satisfied smile on his face, he opened the door an inch or so to allow Mrs Weasley's voice to permeate the room better, "It makes such a nice change."

"—COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE HAVEN'T GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITHOUT YOU DRAGGIN STOLEN CAULDRONS INTO THE HOUSE-"

Sirius came up the stairs with his hands up, head shaking and his expression communicating that he _did not _want to be involved in whatever the hell was going on downstairs.

"Why don't I replace Molly as your supervisor for the hour?" he smiled, and as he glanced behind him, his pace quickened as he abruptly shot forward.

"Close the door, close the door!" he hissed as he rushed past, and after blinking dumbly once, Fred rushed to quickly do as Sirius said, but not quick enough as one small body squeezed into the drawing-room.

As Sirius groaned behind him, Harry came closer and found that it was actually house-elf, a dirty rag wrapped around its spindly body like a loincloth, it's skin sunken and clinging to it's tiny bones like it was one fit too big. The elf's eyes and bat-like ears drooped with age but it's gaze was sharp, wary—its large and fleshy nose sniffing around like snout as it looked about the room. The elf took absolutely no notice of Harry and the rest—acting as though it could not see them—while it shuffled hunchbacked, slowly and doggedly towards the far end of the room, all while muttering under its breath in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog.

"... smells like a drain and criminal to boot, but she's no better—nasty old blood traitor with her brats messing up my mistress's house, _oh_, my poor mistress, if she knew… If she knew the scum they've let into her house, what would she say to old Kreacher, oh, the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he do…"

"Hello, Kreacher," said Fred very loudly, closing the door with a snap. The house-elf froze in his tracks. His muttering stopped while he gave a very pronounced and very unconvincing start of surprise.

"Kreacher did not see young master," he said, turning around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he added, perfectly audible, "Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is."

"Sorry?" said George. "Didn't catch that last bit."

"Kreacher said nothing," said the elf, with a second bow to George, adding in a clear undertone, "And there's it's twin, unnatural little beasts they are."

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or be offended.

"Kreacher." he heard Cedric's stern voice and saw him put his arm slightly out, in front of George. Kreacher paused and bowed, lower than he had before, to Cedric.

"Young master Diggory," he said. There were no additional comments as he straightened up, but he eyed the rest of them malevolently. And when he was apparently convinced that they couldn't hear, he continued to mutter.

"... and there's the Mudblood, standing there bold as brass, oh, if my mistress, knew, oh how she'd _cry_, and there's a new boy, Kreacher doesn't know his name. What is he doing here? Kreacher doesn't know…"

"This is Harry, Kreacher," said Hermione tentatively. "Harry Potter."

Kreacher's pale eyes widened and he muttered faster and more furiously than ever.

"The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher as though she is my friend, if Kreacher's mistress saw him in such company, oh, what would she say—"

"Don't call her a Mudblood!" said Ron and Ginny together, very angrily.

"Don't!" Hermione said, grabbing both of their arms. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

"Like hell he doesn't!" Fred said, eyeing Kreacher down. The elf stared hard right back at him.

Harry was shocked. Other than their own, he had never seen a house-elf look at _someone else _in the eyes, let alone openly glare right at them. There was, of course, Dobby but all the house-elves at Hogwarts seemed to be of a shy disposition; never openly interacting with the students unless they were directly in the kitchen.

"What are you doing here, Kreacher?" Cedric asked, and Harry noticed that his stern tone had disappeared, replaced by an even harsher edge. Kreacher looked towards him and once again, his eyes lowered to the floor.

"Kreacher is cleaning," he said evasively, his tiny hands grabbed at each other.

"A likely story," a voice said behind Harry. Sirius was glowering at the house-elf who suddenly flung himself into a low bow, his snout-like nose touching the ground as soon as he saw Sirius.

"Stand up straight," said Sirius impatiently. "Now, what are you up to?"

"Kreacher is cleaning," the elf repeated. "Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House of Black—"

"And it's getting blacker every day, it's filthy," said Sirius.

"Master always liked his little joke," said Krecher, bowing again and continuing in an undertone, "Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his mother's heart — "

"My mother didn't have a heart, Kreacher," snapped Sirius. "She kept herself alive out of pure spite." And they continued to talk like this, a rally of Sirius's cold and curt replies and Kreacher's polite responses and under-the-breath commentary. Like a repeat of Harry's first night, everyone's head swivelled from Kreacher lamenting about Mrs Black and Sirius's sins to Sirius's consistent demands to know why he was _really _here.

Eventually Harry noticed that Kreacher was edging towards the far wall, where a tapestry that looked immensely old, hung in the darker corner of the room.

"Mistress will never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was thrown out. Seven centuries it's been in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher must not let Master and the blood traitor and the brats destroy it—" the elf suddenly said.

"Ah, I thought it might be that," said Sirius, casting a disdainful look at the opposite wall. "She'll have put another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, I don't doubt but if I can get rid of it, I certainly will. Now, go away, Kreacher."

It seemed Kreacher did not dare disobey a direct order, nevertheless, the look he gave Sirius as he shuffled out past him was full of deepest loathing as he muttered all the way out of the room.

"—comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh, my poor mistress, what would she say if she saw the house name; _scum _living in it, her treasures thrown out," and at this Harry saw Kreacher reach into a bag of the trinkets and objects they had collected from the room, and take something out before he continued muttering. "She swore he was no son of hers and he's back, they say he's a murderer too—"

"Take whatever you're holding out of the room and I _will _be a murderer!" Sirius snarled, waving the door shut on the elf.

"Sirius, he's not right in the head!" Hermione pleaded. "I don't think he realizes we can hear him."

"He's been alone too long," said Sirius, he stalked up to Kreacher who stood there hunched and frozen, "taking mad orders from my mother's portrait and talking to himself, but he was always a foul little—"

"I'm sure Kreacher could have this ring right, Sirius?" Cedric suddenly said. Everyone turned to see that he was holding out something in the open palm of his hands; a ring with the Black crest as it's insignia.

"It's not cursed or anything important.. just a memento for him." Cedric said nodding at the elf.

"You're sure?" Sirius said carefully, he stopped and walked over to Cedric, picking the ring up from his hand and rolling it in between his fingers.

"I checked," Cedric said. Then he angled his head, "If we appease Kreacher, then it'll be an easier time cleaning." he said quietly, taking care to speak in a low voice; even Harry, who was beside him, wasn't completely sure of what exact words he had said.

But fortunately Sirius, having heard him clearly, sighed and waved his hand in reply.

"Do whatever you want." he said, and he gave the ring back before he walked towards the tapestry, sizing it up and promptly ignoring whatever was going behind him at that moment.

Cedric smiled at Kreacher, and gestured him closer, before kneeling down to his height.

"I bet he'll let you barter and keep more stuff if you leave us and the rubbish bags alone." Cedric said, hardness still there but his voice was not unkind. "And don't worry — we won't throw anything away without first coming to you."

He held out the ring on his palm, waiting as slowly, slowly, Kreacher took the band and clutched it with both of his tiny hands; as if he was holding onto extremely valuable gem.

Kreacher looked up and stared at Cedric's soft smile, before finally nodding.

"My thanks, young master," he said and he shuffled out of the room and shut the door. There was a moment's silence that followed the click of the door. Fred then slung an arm over Cedric's neck.

"Wow! He didn't even call you traitor, filth, or scum!" he remarked, and before Harry could hear Cedric's reply, he noticed Hermione creep beside him.

"It seems that Kreacher _really _likes him." she whispered, "I don't know _how_, but a few days after they first met, Kreacher stopped talking in that... second voice, whenever he spoke with Cedric."

"It's puzzling, but leave it to charming Cedric to enchant dusty old house-elves, eh?" Ron quipped. He was promptly thwacked by Hermione's hand.

"Ron!"

"What?! He called you a _mudblood!" _

"Yeah, he's got a point," Harry admitted, but before Hermione could indignantly respond, the door re-opened with a frazzled Mrs Weasley now in the doorway.

"I just saw Kreacher walking off with a ring, is that—?"

"Yes Molly, Cedric thought we could let him keep some non-magical items as mementos." Sirius said turning around. "I'm not against the idea if it means he'll be less annoying in the future."

"I see, well, let's not think about that now; Mundungus is making lunch downstairs for us, come on!" and Mrs Weasley gestured everyone to come with her as she turned around, walking towards the stairs.

"_Mundungus _is cooking? For us ?" Ginny said, following behind her.

"As payment for us housing the cauldrons." Mrs Weasley replied, stoically. Fred, George, Ron, Harry and Hermione filtered out of the room, and as Cedric began to follow too, he felt a hand hold him back. It was Sirius.

"Are you pure-blooded by any chance?" he asked, carefully, but before Cedric could answer; Sirius seemed to think twice about it and sighed.

"Ah sorry, don't, er—don't answer that, it doesn't matter," he ran his hands through his hair. "You probably just remind him of Regulus."

"Regulus?" Cedric echoed.

"My idiot brother." Sirius said, and as his gaze swept the floor, the tone of his voice roughening; Cedric took the hint. He bid Sirius goodbye and walked out the door, without realizing that Harry was hiding beside it, propped against the wall—having heard everything.  
After a moment of hesitation, he took a breath and decisively swung into the room, walking beside Sirius who stared at the ancient, sun-dulled tapestry with intent; thumb tucked underneath his chin while the side of his finger pressed to his lips in thought.

"Sirius." Harry said. Sirius jolted.

"Oh!" he said, staring at Harry, "Did you forget something?"

Harry took a breath, "Erm... sorry to ask now of all times but... I think you owed me a conversation about your family?"

Sirius's expression, which was initially appeased and open, faltered at Harry's words. He looked at the ground again with a soft but forced smile.

_"Ah,"_


	16. Lily Song

Harry reached out in front of him, tracing the tapestry's linework, the embroidery and cloth rough with age underneath his fingertips. It was faded and looked as though doxies had gnawed it in places; nevertheless, a golden thread still glinted brightly enough to show them a sprawling family tree dating back (as far as Harry could tell) to the Middle Ages. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:

**The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black**

"**Toujours Pur"**

And from that banner, the golden lines spread into branches that bore fruit of more names on flying banners; caricatures of each family head, of each daughter and son pandering to the tree with their sequined eyes and white-threaded skin.

Two particular banners caught Harry's eye, "You're related to the Malfoys? To the Weasley's, even!"

"The pure-blood families are all interrelated," said Sirius. "If you're only going to let your sons and daughters marry purebloods your choice is very limited, there are hardly any of us left. Molly and I are cousins by marriage and Arthur's something like my second cousin once removed. But there's no point looking for them on here—if ever a family was a bunch of 'blood traitors' it's the Weasleys."

Sirius tapped a branch labeled '_Black' _and trailed down.

"I haven't looked at this for years. There's Phineas Nigellus… my great-great-grandfather, see? Least popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had… and Araminta Meliflua… cousin of my mother's… tried to force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting legal… and dear Aunt Elladora… she started the family tradition of beheading house-elves when they got too old to carry tea trays… of course, anytime the family produced someone halfway decent they were disowned. I see Tonks isn't on here. Maybe that's why Kreacher won't take orders from her—he's supposed to do whatever anyone in the family asks him…"

"You and Tonks are related?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Oh yeah her mother, Andromeda, was my favorite cousin," said Sirius, examining the tapestry carefully. "Andromeda's not on here either, look—they must've removed her after she married Ted Tonks," he pointed to another small round burn mark between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.

"He was a Muggleborn you see, and our family were humiliated by their union! Her sisters however, and as you might have figured out, made lovely and respectable pure-blood marriages… Narcissa to Lucius Malfoy," Sirius said, his finger hovering at '_Malfoy'_, "And Bellatrix to Rodolphus Lestrange."

"Lestrange…" said Harry aloud. The name had stirred something in his memory; he knew it from somewhere, but for a moment he couldn't think where, though it gave him an odd, creeping sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"They're in Azkaban," said Sirius shortly. Harry looked at him curiously.

"Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with Barty Crouch, Junior," said Sirius in the same brusque voice. "Rodolphus's brother, Rabastan, was with them too."

And Harry remembered: He had seen Bellatrix Lestrange inside Dumbledore's Pensieve, the strange device in which thoughts and memories could be stored: a tall dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes, who had stood at her trial and proclaimed her continuing allegiance to Lord Voldemort, her pride that she had tried to find him after his downfall and her conviction that she would one day be rewarded for her loyalty.

"You never said she was your—"

"Does it matter if she's my cousin?" snapped Sirius. "As far as I'm concerned, they're not my family—_she's _certainly not my family. I haven't seen her since I was your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming in to Azkaban. D'you think I'm proud of having relatives like her?"

"Sorry," said Harry quickly, "I didn't mean—I was just surprised, that's all—"

"It doesn't matter, don't apologize," Sirius mumbled at once. He crossed his arms and dug his nails underside, but Harry didn't seem offended. He didn't even notice Sirius's obvious discomfort, as eyes took to tapestry and scanned the bottom of the tree.

"Hold on… you're not on here!" he said and it roused Sirius, making him bend towards the tapestry's end.

"I used to be there," said Sirius , showing Harry. But his finger pointed at a small, round, charred hole in the tapestry, looking rather similar to the effect of someone that had pressed their cigar to the cloth with much conviction and deliberation.

For some reason the entirety of Harry's chest clenched when he saw it. It felt as if he was the who was the one who had been burned away

"Did they-.. Did they disown you?" he asked.

"Well, I was about your age when I ran away from home, " said Sirius. He looked over at Harry's eyes. They were wide, staring very blatantly at the hole, his hands clutching at the hem of his hoodie. It made Sirius soften. "I'd had enough, and I didn't want to give that pleasure," he said, but gently, as if it was just another piece of history; another family story to the tapestry.

"Where did you go?" asked Harry, staring at him.

"Your dad's place," said Sirius. "Your grandparents were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a second son. I camped out at your dad's during the school holidays, and then when I was seventeen, I got a place of my own, my Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold—he's been wiped off here too, that's probably why—anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter's for Sunday lunch, though."

"But… why did you…?"

"Leave?" Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand through his long hair.

"Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents with their pure-blood mania, convinced that being a Black made you practically royal… They used to pander to me, hold me up as their prodigal son, trying to feed me their ideals since I was a child—but my idiot brother! He was soft enough to _believe _them… that's him." Sirius jabbed a finger at the very bottom of the tree, at the name '_Regulus Black'_. A date of death (some fifteen years previously) followed the date of birth.

"He was younger than me," said Sirius, "and a much better son as I was _constantly _reminded. Quiet and obedient. Very unlike his rebellious older brother. "

"But he _died_," said Harry. He found it hard to swallow.

"Yeah," said Sirius. He shook his head and sighed, "Stupid idiot… he went off to join the Death Eaters."

"The Death Eaters! So he—… Did your parents...?"

"No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea and were all for the purification of the Wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having purebloods in charge. They weren't alone either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colors, who thought he had the right idea about things… They got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up, at first."

"Was he killed by an Auror?" Harry asked tentatively.

"Oh no," said Sirius. "No, he was murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort's orders, more likely, I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person.

"_What?!"_

"From what I found out, he had gotten in far but then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out and, well—you don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death."

Harry stared at Sirius. There was something sardonic and bitter curdling his mouth, as if what he had recalled was stupid, almost trivial; but Harry could tell otherwise, in fact, he knew better.

"I can't really picture what it was like… living with your family," he said, and Sirius gave a small and sad chuckle.

"Harry, I would not _want _for you to be able to." he said. But Harry shook his head.

Sirius's composure was fragile. Delicately carved into his demeanor, like a reflex of some sort that—after talking to Cedric—Harry was all too familiar with. His eyebrows were knitted, not in anger or disgust; but frustration. Eyes staring hard but crumpled, words mocking but more than enough of a testament to a pain that Harry could only imagine.

"I know how it feels though." he said, quietly. "Being so different from the people that you live with… having them dislike... you."

Sirius turned his head, a new light dawned on his face.

"That's right," he whispered. "You do."

"I know that it can be…" and Harry sighed, "..hard and difficult to explain so I don't need you to if you don't want to but—"

"No! No, I'm sorry. I've been rather appalling today, haven't I?" Sirius laughed, nervous. He suddenly reached for Harry's hem-clutched hand and carefully pried his fingers away, holding them and then placing his own palm on top before he gave a large sigh; an exhalation that squeezed the lungs behind his chest, that deflated his shoulders and turned him solemn, thoughtful.

"My past… I do not wish to dwell on it, and I do not wish for you to know details about how my family treated me—you can absolutely guess of course, but you do not _deserve _such information." Sirius said. "I will, however, answer as many questions that I can, instead of being a _tour guide _for my lineage."

Harry grinned at his joke, "Is it really okay?"

"Yes. I did promise you a conversation. And besides—" Sirius said, the glint back in his eye, "Talking about myself used to be one of my favourite past times."

"Alright!" Harry said, laughing, distilling the room as he held firmly onto Sirius's hand.

"Okay." Sirius said and while he smiled to the floor, he took a deep breath.

"Fire away." Harry looked up at the top of the tapestry, and followed the lines that lead to '_Walburga & Orion Black'._

"Well first, when did you know?" he asked. "That it was all codswallop, everything your parents were saying?"

Sirius gave a wry laugh, "Starting in the deep end eh?"

"Oh erm-"

"Don't worry, it's quite alright. But well.. let's see." Sirius took a moment before a cynical, but almost strangely fond smile reached his face.

"I think I _always _hated it, Harry, but if there was a moment… It'd have to be the first day I came back to this house—after spending that entire first term in the Gryffindor tower."

"Really?"

"Well, that moment with the Sorting itself had confirmed everything that I've been conflicted over for years. I was so surprised when I didn't get a Howler the next morning that I became used to it, not hearing a single thing from my parents all that time — I had hoped that maybe they weren't so angry — but I was wrong. When I came back…" Sirius let out a shaky sigh, "I knew that I could never get along with my family, not if I wanted to be myself."

"What happened?"

"As soon as I stepped through the door, my mother grabbed my arm and dragged me into my room, locking me in for some time; telling Kreacher that he was only to bring up bread and water until I started '_behaving like a proper Black,'_" Sirius paused, "I don't think she even _looked _at me."

"That's terrible!" Harry said, aghast.

"It didn't last long." Sirius said, reassuring him. "But that certainly set the tone for the next few years. Despite me being a Gryffindor, Mother was intent on trying to change my mind, saying that Dumbledore and the Sorting Hat had made some a grievous mistake—No son of hers would deviate from bloodline tradition."

"I suppose you didn't like that."

Sirius lips curled into a familiar smirk.

"Well I certainly did my best to rebel against it. It was tiring, you see, because before that, they were always so proud of me; always saying how much I meant to them." Sirius gave a bitter bark of laughter before he shook his head. "Course, what really mattered was who they thought I could be. They never really loved _me_… So I got back at them, as much as I could before I ran away—I started voluntarily staying in my room and stopped eating or going to the main family events that sprinkled throughout the year. I made sure to wear and own all sorts of Muggle things in my room and—" he turned suddenly to Harry and for the second time since he had arrived—the first being when he first saw Harry—Sirius's face warmed, and his grin stretched, fond.

"I would always ask your mother to get me things." he said, hands rapt with a new animation. "Like those automatic quills? The plastic ones, where you can just press a button and, voila!"

"Pens?" Harry asked, incredulously. Sirius clapped his hands.

"Yes! _Pens!_ Wonderful things, I drove my family half-mad by just clicking and oh, I could never forget when Lily brought me those tapes. The amount of songs and movies I played at ridiculous hours!" Sirius grinned, his eyes at the ceiling, reminiscent. "I collected posters, clothes and accessories, records, tapes and all sorts of Muggle inventions—put a Permanent Sticking Charm on them whenever I left for school. And when I ran away, I brought it all with me— _everything_. Moony was interested in Muggle things as well you see, especially the music, we'd always listen to something different in the evening…"

"Moony… Did you mean Lupin?"

"Ah yes," Sirius coughed into his hand, embarrassed. "Sorry, the nicknames we gave each other at Hogwarts are.. very _stuck_, even now."

"Did Lupin live with you? After you left my Dad's?"

Sirius looked up from his hand. He was caught a little off-guard, but there was something a little more undecipherable there, something Harry couldn't quite read.

"He did." said Sirius and he opened and closed his mouth several times, as if trying to figure out what to say. "Of course it was _after _we left school, but… yes. For a time, we rented out this dinky flat on the outskirts of London, a bit before you were just born."

"Dinky?"

"It was a cheap apartment, so it was cramped and a little shoddy—we never had a proper warm bath but," Sirius's eyes gleamed, "It was _cosy… _a home,"

Harry blinked, "I didn't know you two were so close."

Sirius paused, but then he smiled again. Still undecipherable.

"We w-.. are, yes. It went downhill for a bit, when I was framed for murder and such but now… erm .." Sirius shook his head and then waved his hand , "Anyway! Do you- do you have any more questions?"

Harry swallowed.

He had many, really.

He wanted to ask what he was like at school, how it felt to be the first ones to form the new Order. He wanted to ask about Peter Pettigrew, wanted know about the Marauders and how they became Animagi, how they created the map, and what his father and mother were like. And finally, there was this nagging within Harry, a sense of tugging that felt like Sirius was holding back on Lupin—like there was some kind of boundary that Harry had yet to touch on.

But while there was so much to ask Sirius, so much to unravel and understand and to see; for now…

"I have one."

"Alright," Sirius said. He crossed his arms, eager.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." said Harry, hesitantly.

Sirius tilted his head, "I know." he said, intrigued. Harry paused a moment, rethinking about whether he should say it, his tongue caught between his teeth for good measure.

"Did you love your brother, Regulus?" he asked.

Sirius's body slowly straightened in quiet revelation, his eyebrow arched and eyes darting as he tried to process the question in his head, "What made you…?"

"You just _react _so differently to his name." Harry hurriedly explained. "I was wondering whether you had a soft spot for him before he—... you know."

"Well I did. Of course I did, everyone did! He was… a people pleaser before he became such a bigot—a quiet bigot, mind you but still a purebred, brainwashed **bigot**." Sirius said and he threw his hand up. "Hell, even before that, he was trying to please all the other bigots! I _hated _it."

"But?" Harry asked. Sirius sighed.

He was sighing a lot today.

"But it was harder to hate Regulus despite it all. I knew that he just wanted to make our parents happy—there was more pressure on him when I showed my 'true' colors," Sirius shook his head. "Suddenly _he _was expected to succeed the Black name, _he _was expected to inherit everything which meant he had to be _perfect_… the perfect, little pureblood son."

Harry nodded "Were you protective?"

"Very. But eventually he stopped needing it, he… he became friends with more like-minded people, you see, people that Mother and Father approved of; narrow-minded and _stupid _gits, but powerful ones at the very least, people whose name held weight in our world. Bred to be just like their parents stuck in their own pureblood fantasies," Sirius looked like he was about to spit on the floor,. "I knew he didn't like it or them very much, but he thought it was where he _belonged_. And when I left, well... he stuck himself _firmly_, in... their world."

"It's not your fault," Harry said suddenly. It felt like he was being pricked, as he watched Sirius blame himself; the bittersweet smile, the shake of his head all pricking and binding Harry to a new surge of something that flowed, sad and frustrated in his chest.

"I should've been more persistent," Sirius said.

"But you had to leave!"

Sirius chuckled.

"That was always what Remus and James would say. And even now, I still try to convince myself that but," Sirius traced the tapestry's embroidered outline of Regulus Black. He thumbed the threaded cheek and sighed, small, once more. "When you get older, you become less and less certain."

"Aren't you overthinking it? It wasn't your fault for running away! All the things your parents did... they basically _made _you!"

"Did they? I was able to bear with their treatment for five years… maybe if I stuck around, one more could've made the difference."

"But you're your own person Sirius," said Harry helplessly, "You had things that you needed as well, and you're much more than the guiding buff for your brother's moral compass!"

Sirius paused, face blank for one second before suddenly, it creased—as if his eyes and his smile were laced with something old and kind. Harry suddenly realized how many years Azkaban had put onto Sirius's face, and how many more must've been etched, like tally marks, onto his own soul. He saw how the frown lines and gauntness had formed in his face which—while full-cheeked and less obvious in bruise or tear—still hung, haggard and worn. A mark of the trauma, of the experiences that Sirius had the misfortune to endure.

Harry knew that no matter what he said, Sirius's mind would be set on the way he saw this part of his life. The guilt. The anguish. Did Sirius twinge whenever he laughed in his flat with Lupin? Imagining where Regulus would've been at the same moment, wondering if he deserved to even be happy when he had left his brother to the cold luxury of a deadly world and even more deadly people? Did Sirius ever fight Death Eaters and hesitate, wondering whether it was his own brother underneath the hood? Did he take a breath each time they unmasked someone they captured, injured or even killed? Did he pray or thank some higher power in his head when he made sure that Regulus was never ever one of the Order's victims?

Harry did not know what Sirius was feeling, he did not know what trials Sirius suffered or endured, but he could imagine it. He knew what it felt to have the presence of a person burned into the back of your mind, to have the feeling course through your bloodstream with the same kind of fire and raze every single time. In the way Harry knew he hated Voldemort, Sirius knew that he loved Regulus; without question. Barred only by the lines of fate and circumstance, of choice and influence that ran far beyond his own control. Because-

"You're right Harry," Sirius said. "You're absolutely right, no doubt that if I had stayed, perhaps I would've been worse off…" And Harry swallowed, because he knew what sort of words would be said next. He knew what slept underneath Sirius's seeming agreement.

"But?" he still asked.

And Sirius smiled again. Stubborn, proud. _Sad_.

"I was _his _older brother. And I don't know if you can understand, or if many other siblings have the same feelings but; for Regulus and I… what we had was an unspoken oath. My parent's beliefs and convictions made it necessary."

Sirius then dropped his voice, mild in tone.

_Gentle_.

"Like my duty to you, the Order, and to R—my _friends;_ it was less of an obligation and more of a commitment," Sirius smiled, recalling the childish memories of playing Knights and Dragons, hiding under blanket-bunkers and dining table trenches; "The commitment I had to my brother… that will be the one that I will always regret not taking seriously," Sirius said, and he let go of the tapestry and stood up straight, looking ahead.

Abruptly, he squeezed Harry's hand,  
"Please don't feel bad on _my _behalf," he said. And Harry didn't realize it, but there were a stream of tears that ran down his cheeks, the gaping pain of his chest now ripped open to full exposure, pricking behind his eyes as he wept, silent. He could see how the sadness pooled in the crescent of Sirius's eyes, and he watched how that confident back and swagger, hunched over the tapestry; decimated and blighted by regret.

Harry had always been familiar with pain. It was an old friend. Something that lingered and slept in the crevices of his mind.

But _this _was different.

It was coppered in an older mold, a proof that suffering can never really be more than just _suffering;_ that it doesn't necessitate strength or growth in the bodies that it affects—it can stay and squirm and play dead but in the end it lay just plain, unkiltered and simple, _pain_.  
To an extent, Harry knew it could change someone. In the way his scar etched onto his forehead, it was something so presently forgettable in his life that he often could not fully appreciate or understand, the absolute barbarity of a raw and aged hurt; something that drowned your conscience like another layer of skin, a thick hide that broke into spikes from the inside, only scabbing so it could break and bleed again and again and again and **again**.

He turned to Sirius, who stood beside him, ever so strong… and remembered the shell he was two years ago. A wispy husk of the young man he was before, empty of romanticism, grandiosity and reckless; full of a youth gone bad, of a venture that had staled.  
Here he was, clutching Harry's hand. His face strained, and in the small catches of whatever heart he poured out; soul, strained. Here was Sirius. Someone who stood straight and became taller than he would ever usually feel, just so he could tell the torment that racked inside, to shove off.

And this thought, this sight, this moment; burned into Harry's heart, rolling and broiling, seeping in cracks and webbing into something ravenous; digging itself a crater until finally,

"Sirius? I'm _glad _to have _you_," Harry said, voice firm but bent under emotion, "In whatever shape or form, or circumstance. No matter how you may have clawed your way through— I am glad that _you _are **here**."

He took a quick breath and wiped at his face, eyes hurting and his heart hurting and everything _hurting _after hearing everything that could be confessed but, once again—Sirius smiled at him, the purest sort of joy that Harry had ever seen, before he felt himself be pulled into his arms; Sirius's right hand reaching up and stroking the back of his hair, while he held the rest of Harry _tight_—his godfather unable to know any other way to explain what love, what happiness ran through his heart, stroked by the gentle and shaky whisper of Harry's honesty.

"Are these affectionate words just another ploy to get me to answer more questions?" he teased.

"—not the time for jokes!" Harry croaked in reply, and Sirius shook with laughter.

"Sorry, I'm sorry" he said but Harry noticed that his voice, too, was... wonky, in a muffled sort of way. It made him pull back from the hug and stare at his godfather,

"Are you crying?" he asked, incredulously.

"No, I've just got something in my eyes is all." Sirius said but then he sniffed, and Harry saw that his eyes were going red and beginning to brim to the edge. Sirius began to look around him with mock annoyance.

"I thought you cleaned this room! All this dust getting into people's eyes—bloody awful job you've done!" he huffed. Eventually, they broke into a fit of giggles unable to resist this strange and tearful mix of something between dry and genuine laughter, as if they didn't have quite the energy to do either wholeheartedly.

When they settled down, they returned to a silent embrace until eventually, time passed and Sirius pulled away; but not before, placing his hands on Harry's shoulders. The mirth gone, but still a light in present in his gaze, his dark eyes looking up, down, and then square in the face.

"Don't worry, Harry. That mistake of duty with Regulus… it _will not _happen a second time," he said. But Harry only shook his head, he took Sirius's hand and tried very hard to muster as much conviction in his voice as he could.

"Sirius, your only duty is to yourself, _please_. If you really want to do something, then… be better to yourself," Harry scratched his head, bashful but indignant. "You you deserve that much, I know that Lupin and even my dad, would agree—wouldn't you think so?"

Sirius looked at Harry. He looked and felt his heart lift, unseized. Felt it rest on its side, full, as he swelled and smiled and swelled.  
The dust that had settled onto his bones fell away. And the age that he felt tightening his face and words began to cease, his head singing and filling with a song that once echoed in castle hallways; one of sunlight and green leaves, of sneaking bread-rolls and biscuits out of the kitchen while James tried to hide his Head Boy badge from the house-elves. One that reminded him of how many books he had poured over in the library, turning the pages of old tomes while Remus knitted in the seat beside him. And one that made him acutely recall the sensation of an itchy, wool rug - how it felt underneath when he lay eagle-spread on the Common Room floor, Lily sitting up beside him, humming melodies and tunes .. while the rest of Marauders dozed off in the armchairs.

In that moment of silence, Harry watched as for the umpteenth time today (he could hardly keep count) Sirius had the most pleasantly surprised expression on his face. A tender and small, closed smile —as if he was trying not to do it — lighting up his face.

He turned to Harry.

"Did I ever tell you how alike, you and your mother are?" he asked. Harry shook his head.

"Is it my eyes?"

"No," Sirius said, and he placed his palm against Harry's chest,

"It's your heart."


	17. The Hearing (I)

It had been a couple of days since they started cleaning the drawing-room.  
Harry no longer needed to wipe the dust off his glasses as the shelves became emptier and emptier, the floor filled with large sacks of rubbish and stored heirlooms, cabinets stacked and armchairs—no longer wheezing it's own insides— moved to the far wall.

Cleaning felt like a war in this room. Everyone's hands eventually reddened from scrubbing, layered smells of fix-it potions and masking fragrances grew hard to wash off each evening. Casualties were taken when Cedric and Fred—so affected by the scents—tried to work with toothpaste under their noses while Ginny had to stop completely; a constant rate of sneezes erupting from her direction every half-second despite having a heavily bundled face.  
On a separate occasion, Ron disappeared for _two hours_ after he lifted a mat and discovered that a multitude of spiders were living underneath the 12-inch polyester and wool mesh, their spindly legs all spilling out as soon as daylight hit the abode. Harry eventually found his friend sitting in the kitchen with Sirius, who had made him several cups of tea.

While it was hard work at first, in time they soon grew satisfied to see how it paid off; the walls having returned to their olive green color and actual sunlight streaming into the room, the space clear of the strewn junk—crumpled papers, broken down furniture, rusty jewelry and tattered paintings—and it's corners free of low-hanging cobwebs.

Now it was just the finishing touches as Harry wrapped a cloth around the bottom half of his face, watching Hermione and Ginny carried in large boxes that contained numerous spray-bottles, which were filled with some sort-of black liquid.

He picked a bottle up and carefully examined it.

"It's Doxycide," someone explained and Harry looked behind to see Mrs Weasley, pointing at the long, moss green velvet curtains that were buzzing as though swarming with invisible bees. "I've never seen an infestation this bad! What has that house-elf been doing for the last ten years?!"

Hermione's face was half-concealed by a tea towel but Harry distinctly saw her throw a reproachful look at Mrs Weasley.

"Kreacher's really old, he probably couldn't manage —"

"You'd be surprised what Kreacher can manage when he wants to, Hermione," said Sirius, who had just entered the room carrying a bloodstained bag of what appeared to be dead rats.

"I've just been feeding Buckbeak," he added, in reply to Harry's enquiring look. "I keep him upstairs in my mother's bedroom. Anyway… this writing desk…"

Sirius dropped the bag onto an armchair and walked around the cabinet Mrs Weasley had moved into the corner. As he bent over the cabinet shook, quick but a little too violently for anyone to miss or ignore, even if they weren't looking.

"Well Molly, I'm pretty sure this _is _a Boggart," said Sirius, peering through the keyhole, "but you're right, perhaps we ought to let Mad-Eye have a shifty at it before we let it out— knowing my mother, it could be something much worse… "

"Right you are, Sirius," said Mrs Weasley.

It was rather irking to hear them talk. They both spoke in such alien, polite tones that it felt a completely new dialect of English, a language that kept their voices so light, so careful and delicate that it could've frosted several cupcakes. Harry and the others had spent enough time with this strangeness, it only made everything more obvious and all the more clear what weighed so heavily in Sirius and Mrs Weasley's heads.

But soon and thankfully, dashing the awkward air, a loud, clanging bell sounded from downstairs—followed at once by the cacophony of screams and wails.

"I keep telling them not to ring the doorbell!" said Sirius exasperatedly, hurrying out of the room. They heard him thundering down the stairs as Mrs Black's screeches echoed through the house once more:

"STAIN'S OF DISHONOUR, FILTHY HALF-BREEDS, BLOOD TRAITORS, CHILDREN OF FILTH!"

Cedric quickly shut the door much to Harry's regret—he couldn't hear any of the conversation that might've been exchanged downstairs—while Mrs Weasley very quickly ordered them about, flipping through the pages of Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests and shouting _"George, move the chair there"'_s and _"Ginny, stay away from the curtains"_ and _"Please Hermione, just let Crookshanks out!"._

A few minutes later, they had spread out into a makeshift firing line facing the windows, Mrs Weasley slightly in front; encouraging them to be trigger-happy with their bottles of Doxycide as they sprayed the room at varying speeds.

Harry, who had been squeezing hesitantly and almost lazily, had been spraying only a few seconds when a fully-grown Doxy came soaring out of a fold in the material, shiny beetle-like wings whirring, tiny needle-sharp teeth bared, it's fairy-like body covered with thick black hair and it's four tiny fists clench with fury. Thankfully—or rather unfortunately for itself—it flew straight at Harry's nozzle and froze midair, falling with a loud _thunk!_ to the floor and it's small body covered in the little black droplets of Doxycide spray. Careful to still be gentle, Harry plucked the Doxy from the floor and dropped it into the bucket beside his feet.

"Fred, what are you doing?" Mrs Weasley suddenly said. "Spray that at once and throw it away!"

Harry looked over and saw Fred holding a struggling Doxy in his hand. He promptly sprayed it in the face, causing it to faint, and made a show of throwing it into the bucket; but as soon as Mrs Weasley turned, he pocketed it with a wink. Beside Harry, Cedric crept up.

"They've been wanting to experiment with Doxy venom for their Skeeving Snackboxes." he said under his breath.

Spraying two more Doxy's, George came over and quietly muttered, "_Skiving _Snackboxes Cedric, get it right!"

"What are Skiving Snackboxes?" Harry asked, just out of the corner of his mouth.

"Range of sweets to make you ill," George whispered, keeping a wary eye on Mrs Weasley's back. "Not seriously ill, mind, just ill enough to get you out of a class when you feel like it. Fred and I have been developing them this summer. They're double-ended, color-coded chews. If you eat the orange half of the Puking Pastilles, you throw up. Moment you've been rushed out of the lesson for the hospital wing, you swallow the purple half—"

"—which restores you to full fitness, enabling you to pursue the leisure activity of your own choice during an hour that would otherwise have been devoted to unprofitable boredom.' That's what we're putting on the adverts, anyway," whispered Fred, who had edged over out of Mrs Weasley's line of vision and was no sweeping a few stray Doxy's from the floor and adding them to his pocket.

"Yeah, I'm going to have to pass on testing this time," Cedric said firmly.

"_Testing?" _Harry said, eyes wide.

"Alongside Fred and I, Cedric here has graciously lent us his own body for the past few days—for research purposes, of course."

"And, what have you found out?"

"Erm.. well none of us can stop puking for long enough to swallow the purple end." George admitted.

"But!" Fred said, jumping in. "The Fainting Fancies, the Nosebleed Nougat are both basically functional and more pleasant to experience than we realized."

"Plus the results are great! Mum thought we'd been duelling... "

In unison, the four boys swivelled their heads slightly to look at Mrs Weasley who was quite busy, advising Ron on how to firmly hold the bottle in his hand.

"Jokeshop's still on, then?" Harry muttered, pretending to adjust the nozzle on his spray.

"Well, we haven't had a chance to get premises yet," said Fred, dropping his voice even lower as Mrs Weasley mopped her brow with her scarf before returning to the attack, "So we're running it as a mail-order service at the moment. We put advertisements in the Daily Prophet last week."

"All thanks to your kindness, Harry," said George, "And don't fret … Mum hasn't got a clue about anything! She stopped reading the Daily Prophet, since it just kept telling lies about you two and Dumbledore."

Harry grinned. He felt strangely proud that the tournament prize money was being used in this way.

"And you, a Hogwarts Prefect and a Champion, are _okay _with this?" Harry asked, glancing at Cedric.

He gave a slight shrug.

"I did tell you to do whatever with the money… Besides, it's either that I can _sort-of _control their movements now or let them loose and be reporting about it later. I know full well, I can't stop anything this point," Cedric said, and he shook his spray bottle with a wry grin.

"Besides, the people want what the people want!" he said, but it was too loud; Mrs Weasley whipping around with a dangerous expression on her face. The four boys promptly halted in their conversation and muffled laughter as they dispersed in opposite directions.

The de-Doxying of the curtains took most of the morning.  
It was past midday when Mrs Weasley finally removed her protective scar, sank into a sagging armchair and sprang up again with a cry of disgust, having sat on the bag of dead rats. The curtains were no longer buzzing; they hung limp and damp from the intensive spraying. At the foot of them unconscious Doxy's lay crammed in the bucket beside a bowl of their black eggs, at which Crookshanks was now sniffing and Fred and George were shooting covetous looks.

As they crept towards the bucket, the clanging doorbell rang again.

"It's Mundungus!" Hermione cried as she peered through the window. "Oh but… why's he brought all those cauldrons?"

Everyone looked over at Mrs Weasley.

"Stay here," she said firmly, snatching up a bag of rats as Mrs Black's screeches started up again from down below. "I'll bring up some sandwiches."

"Ron wasn't he talking to you about picking up dodgy cauldron's at dinner the other night?" Hermione asked. Everyone gathered behind her and watched as Mundungus tried to heave a large sack—oddly shaped as if a bunch of dodgy cauldrons had just been stuffed inside—up the steps.

"Blimey! Mum won't like that…" Fred said, making his way over to the door. As true to his words, when he opened the door, there was an explosion of sound from downstairs.

"WE ARE NOT RUNNING A HIDEOUT FOR STOLEN GOODS!" All of them could hear exactly what Mrs Weasley was shouting at the top of her lungs.

"Ah, I _so _love hearing Mum shouting at someone else!" said Fred, with a satisfied smile on his face, he opened the door an inch or so to allow Mrs Weasley's voice to permeate the room better, "It makes such a nice change."

"—COMPLETELY IRRESPONSIBLE, AS IF WE HAVEN'T GOT ENOUGH TO WORRY ABOUT WITHOUT YOU DRAGGIN STOLEN CAULDRONS INTO THE HOUSE-"

Sirius came up the stairs with his hands up, head shaking and his expression communicating that he _did not _want to be involved in whatever the hell was going on downstairs.

"Why don't I replace Molly as your supervisor for the hour?" he smiled, and as he glanced behind him, his pace quickened as he abruptly shot forward.

"Close the door, close the door!" he hissed as he rushed past, and after blinking dumbly once, Fred rushed to quickly do as Sirius said, but not quick enough as one small body squeezed into the drawing-room.

As Sirius groaned behind him, Harry came closer and found that it was actually house-elf, a dirty rag wrapped around its spindly body like a loincloth, it's skin sunken and clinging to it's tiny bones like it was one fit too big. The elf's eyes and bat-like ears drooped with age but it's gaze was sharp, wary—its large and fleshy nose sniffing around like snout as it looked about the room. The elf took absolutely no notice of Harry and the rest—acting as though it could not see them—while it shuffled hunchbacked, slowly and doggedly towards the far end of the room, all while muttering under its breath in a hoarse, deep voice like a bullfrog.

"... smells like a drain and criminal to boot, but she's no better—nasty old blood traitor with her brats messing up my mistress's house, _oh_, my poor mistress, if she knew… If she knew the scum they've let into her house, what would she say to old Kreacher, oh, the shame of it, Mudbloods and werewolves and traitors and thieves, poor old Kreacher, what can he do…"

"Hello, Kreacher," said Fred very loudly, closing the door with a snap. The house-elf froze in his tracks. His muttering stopped while he gave a very pronounced and very unconvincing start of surprise.

"Kreacher did not see young master," he said, turning around and bowing to Fred. Still facing the carpet, he added, perfectly audible, "Nasty little brat of a blood traitor it is."

"Sorry?" said George. "Didn't catch that last bit."

"Kreacher said nothing," said the elf, with a second bow to George, adding in a clear undertone, "And there's it's twin, unnatural little beasts they are."

Harry didn't know whether to laugh or be offended.

"Kreacher." he heard Cedric's stern voice and saw him put his arm slightly out, in front of George. Kreacher paused and bowed, lower than he had before, to Cedric.

"Young master Diggory," he said. There were no additional comments as he straightened up, but he eyed the rest of them malevolently. And when he was apparently convinced that they couldn't hear, he continued to mutter.

"... and there's the Mudblood, standing there bold as brass, oh, if my mistress, knew, oh how she'd _cry_, and there's a new boy, Kreacher doesn't know his name. What is he doing here? Kreacher doesn't know…"

"This is Harry, Kreacher," said Hermione tentatively. "Harry Potter."

Kreacher's pale eyes widened and he muttered faster and more furiously than ever.

"The Mudblood is talking to Kreacher as though she is my friend, if Kreacher's mistress saw him in such company, oh, what would she say—"

"Don't call her a Mudblood!" said Ron and Ginny together, very angrily.

"Don't!" Hermione said, grabbing both of their arms. "He doesn't know what he's saying."

"Like hell he doesn't!" Fred said, eyeing Kreacher down. The elf stared hard right back at him.

Harry was shocked. Other than their own, he had never seen a house-elf look at _someone else _in the eyes, let alone openly glare right at them. There was, of course, Dobby but all the house-elves at Hogwarts seemed to be of a shy disposition; never openly interacting with the students unless they were directly in the kitchen.

"What are you doing here, Kreacher?" Cedric asked, and Harry noticed that his stern tone had disappeared, replaced by an even harsher edge. Kreacher looked towards him and once again, his eyes lowered to the floor.

"Kreacher is cleaning," he said evasively, his tiny hands grabbed at each other.

"A likely story," a voice said behind Harry. Sirius was glowering at the house-elf who suddenly flung himself into a low bow, his snout-like nose touching the ground as soon as he saw Sirius.

"Stand up straight," said Sirius impatiently. "Now, what are you up to?"

"Kreacher is cleaning," the elf repeated. "Kreacher lives to serve the Noble House of Black—"

"And it's getting blacker every day, it's filthy," said Sirius.

"Master always liked his little joke," said Krecher, bowing again and continuing in an undertone, "Master was a nasty ungrateful swine who broke his mother's heart — "

"My mother didn't have a heart, Kreacher," snapped Sirius. "She kept herself alive out of pure spite." And they continued to talk like this, a rally of Sirius's cold and curt replies and Kreacher's polite responses and under-the-breath commentary. Like a repeat of Harry's first night, everyone's head swivelled from Kreacher lamenting about Mrs Black and Sirius's sins to Sirius's consistent demands to know why he was _really _here.

Eventually Harry noticed that Kreacher was edging towards the far wall, where a tapestry that looked immensely old, hung in the darker corner of the room.

"Mistress will never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was thrown out. Seven centuries it's been in the family, Kreacher must save it, Kreacher must not let Master and the blood traitor and the brats destroy it—" the elf suddenly said.

"Ah, I thought it might be that," said Sirius, casting a disdainful look at the opposite wall. "She'll have put another Permanent Sticking Charm on the back of it, I don't doubt but if I can get rid of it, I certainly will. Now, go away, Kreacher."

It seemed Kreacher did not dare disobey a direct order, nevertheless, the look he gave Sirius as he shuffled out past him was full of deepest loathing as he muttered all the way out of the room.

"—comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh, my poor mistress, what would she say if she saw the house name; _scum _living in it, her treasures thrown out," and at this Harry saw Kreacher reach into a bag of the trinkets and objects they had collected from the room, and take something out before he continued muttering. "She swore he was no son of hers and he's back, they say he's a murderer too—"

"Take whatever you're holding out of the room and I _will _be a murderer!" Sirius snarled, waving the door shut on the elf.

"Sirius, he's not right in the head!" Hermione pleaded. "I don't think he realizes we can hear him."

"He's been alone too long," said Sirius, he stalked up to Kreacher who stood there hunched and frozen, "taking mad orders from my mother's portrait and talking to himself, but he was always a foul little—"

"I'm sure Kreacher could have this ring right, Sirius?" Cedric suddenly said. Everyone turned to see that he was holding out something in the open palm of his hands; a ring with the Black crest as it's insignia.

"It's not cursed or anything important.. just a memento for him." Cedric said nodding at the elf.

"You're sure?" Sirius said carefully, he stopped and walked over to Cedric, picking the ring up from his hand and rolling it in between his fingers.

"I checked," Cedric said. Then he angled his head, "If we appease Kreacher, then it'll be an easier time cleaning." he said quietly, taking care to speak in a low voice; even Harry, who was beside him, wasn't completely sure of what exact words he had said.

But fortunately Sirius, having heard him clearly, sighed and waved his hand in reply.

"Do whatever you want." he said, and he gave the ring back before he walked towards the tapestry, sizing it up and promptly ignoring whatever was going behind him at that moment.

Cedric smiled at Kreacher, and gestured him closer, before kneeling down to his height.

"I bet he'll let you barter and keep more stuff if you leave us and the rubbish bags alone." Cedric said, hardness still there but his voice was not unkind. "And don't worry — we won't throw anything away without first coming to you."

He held out the ring on his palm, waiting as slowly, slowly, Kreacher took the band and clutched it with both of his tiny hands; as if he was holding onto extremely valuable gem.

Kreacher looked up and stared at Cedric's soft smile, before finally nodding.

"My thanks, young master," he said and he shuffled out of the room and shut the door. There was a moment's silence that followed the click of the door. Fred then slung an arm over Cedric's neck.

"Wow! He didn't even call you traitor, filth, or scum!" he remarked, and before Harry could hear Cedric's reply, he noticed Hermione creep beside him.

"It seems that Kreacher _really _likes him." she whispered, "I don't know _how_, but a few days after they first met, Kreacher stopped talking in that... second voice, whenever he spoke with Cedric."

"It's puzzling, but leave it to charming Cedric to enchant dusty old house-elves, eh?" Ron quipped. He was promptly thwacked by Hermione's hand.

"Ron!"

"What?! He called you a _mudblood!" _

"Yeah, he's got a point," Harry admitted, but before Hermione could indignantly respond, the door re-opened with a frazzled Mrs Weasley now in the doorway.

"I just saw Kreacher walking off with a ring, is that—?"

"Yes Molly, Cedric thought we could let him keep some non-magical items as mementos." Sirius said turning around. "I'm not against the idea if it means he'll be less annoying in the future."

"I see, well, let's not think about that now; Mundungus is making lunch downstairs for us, come on!" and Mrs Weasley gestured everyone to come with her as she turned around, walking towards the stairs.

"_Mundungus _is cooking? For us ?" Ginny said, following behind her.

"As payment for us housing the cauldrons." Mrs Weasley replied, stoically. Fred, George, Ron, Harry and Hermione filtered out of the room, and as Cedric began to follow too, he felt a hand hold him back. It was Sirius.

"Are you pure-blooded by any chance?" he asked, carefully, but before Cedric could answer; Sirius seemed to think twice about it and sighed.

"Ah sorry, don't, er—don't answer that, it doesn't matter," he ran his hands through his hair. "You probably just remind him of Regulus."

"Regulus?" Cedric echoed.

"My idiot brother." Sirius said, and as his gaze swept the floor, the tone of his voice roughening; Cedric took the hint. He bid Sirius goodbye and walked out the door, without realizing that Harry was hiding beside it, propped against the wall—having heard everything.  
After a moment of hesitation, he took a breath and decisively swung into the room, walking beside Sirius who stared at the ancient, sun-dulled tapestry with intent; thumb tucked underneath his chin while the side of his finger pressed to his lips in thought.

"Sirius." Harry said. Sirius jolted.

"Oh!" he said, staring at Harry, "Did you forget something?"

Harry took a breath, "Erm... sorry to ask now of all times but... I think you owed me a conversation about your family?"

Sirius's expression, which was initially appeased and open, faltered at Harry's words. He looked at the ground again with a soft but forced smile.

_"Ah,"_

Lily Song

Harry reached out in front of him, tracing the tapestry's linework, the embroidery and cloth rough with age underneath his fingertips. It was faded and looked as though doxies had gnawed it in places; nevertheless, a golden thread still glinted brightly enough to show them a sprawling family tree dating back (as far as Harry could tell) to the Middle Ages. Large words at the very top of the tapestry read:

**The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black**

"**Toujours Pur"**

And from that banner, the golden lines spread into branches that bore fruit of more names on flying banners; caricatures of each family head, of each daughter and son pandering to the tree with their sequined eyes and white-threaded skin.

Two particular banners caught Harry's eye, "You're related to the Malfoys? To the Weasley's, even!"

"The pure-blood families are all interrelated," said Sirius. "If you're only going to let your sons and daughters marry purebloods your choice is very limited, there are hardly any of us left. Molly and I are cousins by marriage and Arthur's something like my second cousin once removed. But there's no point looking for them on here—if ever a family was a bunch of 'blood traitors' it's the Weasleys."

Sirius tapped a branch labeled '_Black' _and trailed down.

"I haven't looked at this for years. There's Phineas Nigellus… my great-great-grandfather, see? Least popular headmaster Hogwarts ever had… and Araminta Meliflua… cousin of my mother's… tried to force through a Ministry Bill to make Muggle-hunting legal… and dear Aunt Elladora… she started the family tradition of beheading house-elves when they got too old to carry tea trays… of course, anytime the family produced someone halfway decent they were disowned. I see Tonks isn't on here. Maybe that's why Kreacher won't take orders from her—he's supposed to do whatever anyone in the family asks him…"

"You and Tonks are related?" Harry asked, surprised.

"Oh yeah her mother, Andromeda, was my favorite cousin," said Sirius, examining the tapestry carefully. "Andromeda's not on here either, look—they must've removed her after she married Ted Tonks," he pointed to another small round burn mark between two names, Bellatrix and Narcissa.

"He was a Muggleborn you see, and our family were humiliated by their union! Her sisters however, and as you might have figured out, made lovely and respectable pure-blood marriages… Narcissa to Lucius Malfoy," Sirius said, his finger hovering at '_Malfoy'_, "And Bellatrix to Rodolphus Lestrange."

"Lestrange…" said Harry aloud. The name had stirred something in his memory; he knew it from somewhere, but for a moment he couldn't think where, though it gave him an odd, creeping sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"They're in Azkaban," said Sirius shortly. Harry looked at him curiously.

"Bellatrix and her husband Rodolphus came in with Barty Crouch, Junior," said Sirius in the same brusque voice. "Rodolphus's brother, Rabastan, was with them too."

And Harry remembered: He had seen Bellatrix Lestrange inside Dumbledore's Pensieve, the strange device in which thoughts and memories could be stored: a tall dark woman with heavy-lidded eyes, who had stood at her trial and proclaimed her continuing allegiance to Lord Voldemort, her pride that she had tried to find him after his downfall and her conviction that she would one day be rewarded for her loyalty.

"You never said she was your—"

"Does it matter if she's my cousin?" snapped Sirius. "As far as I'm concerned, they're not my family—_she's _certainly not my family. I haven't seen her since I was your age, unless you count a glimpse of her coming in to Azkaban. D'you think I'm proud of having relatives like her?"

"Sorry," said Harry quickly, "I didn't mean—I was just surprised, that's all—"

"It doesn't matter, don't apologize," Sirius mumbled at once. He crossed his arms and dug his nails underside, but Harry didn't seem offended. He didn't even notice Sirius's obvious discomfort, as eyes took to tapestry and scanned the bottom of the tree.

"Hold on… you're not on here!" he said and it roused Sirius, making him bend towards the tapestry's end.

"I used to be there," said Sirius , showing Harry. But his finger pointed at a small, round, charred hole in the tapestry, looking rather similar to the effect of someone that had pressed their cigar to the cloth with much conviction and deliberation.

For some reason the entirety of Harry's chest clenched when he saw it. It felt as if he was the who was the one who had been burned away

"Did they-.. Did they disown you?" he asked.

"Well, I was about your age when I ran away from home, " said Sirius. He looked over at Harry's eyes. They were wide, staring very blatantly at the hole, his hands clutching at the hem of his hoodie. It made Sirius soften. "I'd had enough, and I didn't want to give that pleasure," he said, but gently, as if it was just another piece of history; another family story to the tapestry.

"Where did you go?" asked Harry, staring at him.

"Your dad's place," said Sirius. "Your grandparents were really good about it; they sort of adopted me as a second son. I camped out at your dad's during the school holidays, and then when I was seventeen, I got a place of my own, my Uncle Alphard had left me a decent bit of gold—he's been wiped off here too, that's probably why—anyway, after that I looked after myself. I was always welcome at Mr. and Mrs. Potter's for Sunday lunch, though."

"But… why did you…?"

"Leave?" Sirius smiled bitterly and ran a hand through his long hair.

"Because I hated the whole lot of them: my parents with their pure-blood mania, convinced that being a Black made you practically royal… They used to pander to me, hold me up as their prodigal son, trying to feed me their ideals since I was a child—but my idiot brother! He was soft enough to _believe _them… that's him." Sirius jabbed a finger at the very bottom of the tree, at the name '_Regulus Black'_. A date of death (some fifteen years previously) followed the date of birth.

"He was younger than me," said Sirius, "and a much better son as I was _constantly _reminded. Quiet and obedient. Very unlike his rebellious older brother. "

"But he _died_," said Harry. He found it hard to swallow.

"Yeah," said Sirius. He shook his head and sighed, "Stupid idiot… he went off to join the Death Eaters."

"The Death Eaters! So he—… Did your parents...?"

"No, no, but believe me, they thought Voldemort had the right idea and were all for the purification of the Wizarding race, getting rid of Muggle-borns and having purebloods in charge. They weren't alone either, there were quite a few people, before Voldemort showed his true colors, who thought he had the right idea about things… They got cold feet when they saw what he was prepared to do to get power, though. But I bet my parents thought Regulus was a right little hero for joining up, at first."

"Was he killed by an Auror?" Harry asked tentatively.

"Oh no," said Sirius. "No, he was murdered by Voldemort. Or on Voldemort's orders, more likely, I doubt Regulus was ever important enough to be killed by Voldemort in person.

"_What?!"_

"From what I found out, he had gotten in far but then panicked about what he was being asked to do and tried to back out and, well—you don't just hand in your resignation to Voldemort. It's a lifetime of service or death."

Harry stared at Sirius. There was something sardonic and bitter curdling his mouth, as if what he had recalled was stupid, almost trivial; but Harry could tell otherwise, in fact, he knew better.

"I can't really picture what it was like… living with your family," he said, and Sirius gave a small and sad chuckle.

"Harry, I would not _want _for you to be able to." he said. But Harry shook his head.

Sirius's composure was fragile. Delicately carved into his demeanor, like a reflex of some sort that—after talking to Cedric—Harry was all too familiar with. His eyebrows were knitted, not in anger or disgust; but frustration. Eyes staring hard but crumpled, words mocking but more than enough of a testament to a pain that Harry could only imagine.

"I know how it feels though." he said, quietly. "Being so different from the people that you live with… having them dislike... you."

Sirius turned his head, a new light dawned on his face.

"That's right," he whispered. "You do."

"I know that it can be…" and Harry sighed, "..hard and difficult to explain so I don't need you to if you don't want to but—"

"No! No, I'm sorry. I've been rather appalling today, haven't I?" Sirius laughed, nervous. He suddenly reached for Harry's hem-clutched hand and carefully pried his fingers away, holding them and then placing his own palm on top before he gave a large sigh; an exhalation that squeezed the lungs behind his chest, that deflated his shoulders and turned him solemn, thoughtful.

"My past… I do not wish to dwell on it, and I do not wish for you to know details about how my family treated me—you can absolutely guess of course, but you do not _deserve _such information." Sirius said. "I will, however, answer as many questions that I can, instead of being a _tour guide _for my lineage."

Harry grinned at his joke, "Is it really okay?"

"Yes. I did promise you a conversation. And besides—" Sirius said, the glint back in his eye, "Talking about myself used to be one of my favourite past times."

"Alright!" Harry said, laughing, distilling the room as he held firmly onto Sirius's hand.

"Okay." Sirius said and while he smiled to the floor, he took a deep breath.

"Fire away." Harry looked up at the top of the tapestry, and followed the lines that lead to '_Walburga & Orion Black'._

"Well first, when did you know?" he asked. "That it was all codswallop, everything your parents were saying?"

Sirius gave a wry laugh, "Starting in the deep end eh?"

"Oh erm-"

"Don't worry, it's quite alright. But well.. let's see." Sirius took a moment before a cynical, but almost strangely fond smile reached his face.

"I think I _always _hated it, Harry, but if there was a moment… It'd have to be the first day I came back to this house—after spending that entire first term in the Gryffindor tower."

"Really?"

"Well, that moment with the Sorting itself had confirmed everything that I've been conflicted over for years. I was so surprised when I didn't get a Howler the next morning that I became used to it, not hearing a single thing from my parents all that time — I had hoped that maybe they weren't so angry — but I was wrong. When I came back…" Sirius let out a shaky sigh, "I knew that I could never get along with my family, not if I wanted to be myself."

"What happened?"

"As soon as I stepped through the door, my mother grabbed my arm and dragged me into my room, locking me in for some time; telling Kreacher that he was only to bring up bread and water until I started '_behaving like a proper Black,'_" Sirius paused, "I don't think she even _looked _at me."

"That's terrible!" Harry said, aghast.

"It didn't last long." Sirius said, reassuring him. "But that certainly set the tone for the next few years. Despite me being a Gryffindor, Mother was intent on trying to change my mind, saying that Dumbledore and the Sorting Hat had made some a grievous mistake—No son of hers would deviate from bloodline tradition."

"I suppose you didn't like that."

Sirius lips curled into a familiar smirk.

"Well I certainly did my best to rebel against it. It was tiring, you see, because before that, they were always so proud of me; always saying how much I meant to them." Sirius gave a bitter bark of laughter before he shook his head. "Course, what really mattered was who they thought I could be. They never really loved _me_… So I got back at them, as much as I could before I ran away—I started voluntarily staying in my room and stopped eating or going to the main family events that sprinkled throughout the year. I made sure to wear and own all sorts of Muggle things in my room and—" he turned suddenly to Harry and for the second time since he had arrived—the first being when he first saw Harry—Sirius's face warmed, and his grin stretched, fond.

"I would always ask your mother to get me things." he said, hands rapt with a new animation. "Like those automatic quills? The plastic ones, where you can just press a button and, voila!"

"Pens?" Harry asked, incredulously. Sirius clapped his hands.

"Yes! _Pens!_ Wonderful things, I drove my family half-mad by just clicking and oh, I could never forget when Lily brought me those tapes. The amount of songs and movies I played at ridiculous hours!" Sirius grinned, his eyes at the ceiling, reminiscent. "I collected posters, clothes and accessories, records, tapes and all sorts of Muggle inventions—put a Permanent Sticking Charm on them whenever I left for school. And when I ran away, I brought it all with me— _everything_. Moony was interested in Muggle things as well you see, especially the music, we'd always listen to something different in the evening…"

"Moony… Did you mean Lupin?"

"Ah yes," Sirius coughed into his hand, embarrassed. "Sorry, the nicknames we gave each other at Hogwarts are.. very _stuck_, even now."

"Did Lupin live with you? After you left my Dad's?"

Sirius looked up from his hand. He was caught a little off-guard, but there was something a little more undecipherable there, something Harry couldn't quite read.

"He did." said Sirius and he opened and closed his mouth several times, as if trying to figure out what to say. "Of course it was _after _we left school, but… yes. For a time, we rented out this dinky flat on the outskirts of London, a bit before you were just born."

"Dinky?"

"It was a cheap apartment, so it was cramped and a little shoddy—we never had a proper warm bath but," Sirius's eyes gleamed, "It was _cosy… _a home,"

Harry blinked, "I didn't know you two were so close."

Sirius paused, but then he smiled again. Still undecipherable.

"We w-.. are, yes. It went downhill for a bit, when I was framed for murder and such but now… erm .." Sirius shook his head and then waved his hand , "Anyway! Do you- do you have any more questions?"

Harry swallowed.

He had many, really.

He wanted to ask what he was like at school, how it felt to be the first ones to form the new Order. He wanted to ask about Peter Pettigrew, wanted know about the Marauders and how they became Animagi, how they created the map, and what his father and mother were like. And finally, there was this nagging within Harry, a sense of tugging that felt like Sirius was holding back on Lupin—like there was some kind of boundary that Harry had yet to touch on.

But while there was so much to ask Sirius, so much to unravel and understand and to see; for now…

"I have one."

"Alright," Sirius said. He crossed his arms, eager.

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to." said Harry, hesitantly.

Sirius tilted his head, "I know." he said, intrigued. Harry paused a moment, rethinking about whether he should say it, his tongue caught between his teeth for good measure.

"Did you love your brother, Regulus?" he asked.

Sirius's body slowly straightened in quiet revelation, his eyebrow arched and eyes darting as he tried to process the question in his head, "What made you…?"

"You just _react _so differently to his name." Harry hurriedly explained. "I was wondering whether you had a soft spot for him before he—... you know."

"Well I did. Of course I did, everyone did! He was… a people pleaser before he became such a bigot—a quiet bigot, mind you but still a purebred, brainwashed **bigot**." Sirius said and he threw his hand up. "Hell, even before that, he was trying to please all the other bigots! I _hated _it."

"But?" Harry asked. Sirius sighed.

He was sighing a lot today.

"But it was harder to hate Regulus despite it all. I knew that he just wanted to make our parents happy—there was more pressure on him when I showed my 'true' colors," Sirius shook his head. "Suddenly _he _was expected to succeed the Black name, _he _was expected to inherit everything which meant he had to be _perfect_… the perfect, little pureblood son."

Harry nodded "Were you protective?"

"Very. But eventually he stopped needing it, he… he became friends with more like-minded people, you see, people that Mother and Father approved of; narrow-minded and _stupid _gits, but powerful ones at the very least, people whose name held weight in our world. Bred to be just like their parents stuck in their own pureblood fantasies," Sirius looked like he was about to spit on the floor,. "I knew he didn't like it or them very much, but he thought it was where he _belonged_. And when I left, well... he stuck himself _firmly_, in... their world."

"It's not your fault," Harry said suddenly. It felt like he was being pricked, as he watched Sirius blame himself; the bittersweet smile, the shake of his head all pricking and binding Harry to a new surge of something that flowed, sad and frustrated in his chest.

"I should've been more persistent," Sirius said.

"But you had to leave!"

Sirius chuckled.

"That was always what Remus and James would say. And even now, I still try to convince myself that but," Sirius traced the tapestry's embroidered outline of Regulus Black. He thumbed the threaded cheek and sighed, small, once more. "When you get older, you become less and less certain."

"Aren't you overthinking it? It wasn't your fault for running away! All the things your parents did... they basically _made _you!"

"Did they? I was able to bear with their treatment for five years… maybe if I stuck around, one more could've made the difference."

"But you're your own person Sirius," said Harry helplessly, "You had things that you needed as well, and you're much more than the guiding buff for your brother's moral compass!"

Sirius paused, face blank for one second before suddenly, it creased—as if his eyes and his smile were laced with something old and kind. Harry suddenly realized how many years Azkaban had put onto Sirius's face, and how many more must've been etched, like tally marks, onto his own soul. He saw how the frown lines and gauntness had formed in his face which—while full-cheeked and less obvious in bruise or tear—still hung, haggard and worn. A mark of the trauma, of the experiences that Sirius had the misfortune to endure.

Harry knew that no matter what he said, Sirius's mind would be set on the way he saw this part of his life. The guilt. The anguish. Did Sirius twinge whenever he laughed in his flat with Lupin? Imagining where Regulus would've been at the same moment, wondering if he deserved to even be happy when he had left his brother to the cold luxury of a deadly world and even more deadly people? Did Sirius ever fight Death Eaters and hesitate, wondering whether it was his own brother underneath the hood? Did he take a breath each time they unmasked someone they captured, injured or even killed? Did he pray or thank some higher power in his head when he made sure that Regulus was never ever one of the Order's victims?

Harry did not know what Sirius was feeling, he did not know what trials Sirius suffered or endured, but he could imagine it. He knew what it felt to have the presence of a person burned into the back of your mind, to have the feeling course through your bloodstream with the same kind of fire and raze every single time. In the way Harry knew he hated Voldemort, Sirius knew that he loved Regulus; without question. Barred only by the lines of fate and circumstance, of choice and influence that ran far beyond his own control. Because-

"You're right Harry," Sirius said. "You're absolutely right, no doubt that if I had stayed, perhaps I would've been worse off…" And Harry swallowed, because he knew what sort of words would be said next. He knew what slept underneath Sirius's seeming agreement.

"But?" he still asked.

And Sirius smiled again. Stubborn, proud. _Sad_.

"I was _his _older brother. And I don't know if you can understand, or if many other siblings have the same feelings but; for Regulus and I… what we had was an unspoken oath. My parent's beliefs and convictions made it necessary."

Sirius then dropped his voice, mild in tone.

_Gentle_.

"Like my duty to you, the Order, and to R—my _friends;_ it was less of an obligation and more of a commitment," Sirius smiled, recalling the childish memories of playing Knights and Dragons, hiding under blanket-bunkers and dining table trenches; "The commitment I had to my brother… that will be the one that I will always regret not taking seriously," Sirius said, and he let go of the tapestry and stood up straight, looking ahead.

Abruptly, he squeezed Harry's hand,  
"Please don't feel bad on _my _behalf," he said. And Harry didn't realize it, but there were a stream of tears that ran down his cheeks, the gaping pain of his chest now ripped open to full exposure, pricking behind his eyes as he wept, silent. He could see how the sadness pooled in the crescent of Sirius's eyes, and he watched how that confident back and swagger, hunched over the tapestry; decimated and blighted by regret.

Harry had always been familiar with pain. It was an old friend. Something that lingered and slept in the crevices of his mind.

But _this _was different.

It was coppered in an older mold, a proof that suffering can never really be more than just _suffering;_ that it doesn't necessitate strength or growth in the bodies that it affects—it can stay and squirm and play dead but in the end it lay just plain, unkiltered and simple, _pain_.  
To an extent, Harry knew it could change someone. In the way his scar etched onto his forehead, it was something so presently forgettable in his life that he often could not fully appreciate or understand, the absolute barbarity of a raw and aged hurt; something that drowned your conscience like another layer of skin, a thick hide that broke into spikes from the inside, only scabbing so it could break and bleed again and again and again and **again**.

He turned to Sirius, who stood beside him, ever so strong… and remembered the shell he was two years ago. A wispy husk of the young man he was before, empty of romanticism, grandiosity and reckless; full of a youth gone bad, of a venture that had staled.  
Here he was, clutching Harry's hand. His face strained, and in the small catches of whatever heart he poured out; soul, strained. Here was Sirius. Someone who stood straight and became taller than he would ever usually feel, just so he could tell the torment that racked inside, to shove off.

And this thought, this sight, this moment; burned into Harry's heart, rolling and broiling, seeping in cracks and webbing into something ravenous; digging itself a crater until finally,

"Sirius? I'm _glad _to have _you_," Harry said, voice firm but bent under emotion, "In whatever shape or form, or circumstance. No matter how you may have clawed your way through— I am glad that _you _are **here**."

He took a quick breath and wiped at his face, eyes hurting and his heart hurting and everything _hurting _after hearing everything that could be confessed but, once again—Sirius smiled at him, the purest sort of joy that Harry had ever seen, before he felt himself be pulled into his arms; Sirius's right hand reaching up and stroking the back of his hair, while he held the rest of Harry _tight_—his godfather unable to know any other way to explain what love, what happiness ran through his heart, stroked by the gentle and shaky whisper of Harry's honesty.

"Are these affectionate words just another ploy to get me to answer more questions?" he teased.

"—not the time for jokes!" Harry croaked in reply, and Sirius shook with laughter.

"Sorry, I'm sorry" he said but Harry noticed that his voice, too, was... wonky, in a muffled sort of way. It made him pull back from the hug and stare at his godfather,

"Are you crying?" he asked, incredulously.

"No, I've just got something in my eyes is all." Sirius said but then he sniffed, and Harry saw that his eyes were going red and beginning to brim to the edge. Sirius began to look around him with mock annoyance.

"I thought you cleaned this room! All this dust getting into people's eyes—bloody awful job you've done!" he huffed. Eventually, they broke into a fit of giggles unable to resist this strange and tearful mix of something between dry and genuine laughter, as if they didn't have quite the energy to do either wholeheartedly.

When they settled down, they returned to a silent embrace until eventually, time passed and Sirius pulled away; but not before, placing his hands on Harry's shoulders. The mirth gone, but still a light in present in his gaze, his dark eyes looking up, down, and then square in the face.

"Don't worry, Harry. That mistake of duty with Regulus… it _will not _happen a second time," he said. But Harry only shook his head, he took Sirius's hand and tried very hard to muster as much conviction in his voice as he could.

"Sirius, your only duty is to yourself, _please_. If you really want to do something, then… be better to yourself," Harry scratched his head, bashful but indignant. "You deserve that much, I know that Lupin and even my dad, would agree—wouldn't you think so?"

Sirius looked at Harry. He looked and felt his heart lift, unseized. Felt it rest on its side, full, as he swelled and smiled and swelled.  
The dust that had settled onto his bones fell away. And the age that he felt tightening his face and words began to cease, his head singing and filling with a song that once echoed in castle hallways; one of sunlight and green leaves, of sneaking bread-rolls and biscuits out of the kitchen while James tried to hide his Head Boy badge from the house-elves. One that reminded him of how many books he had poured over in the library, turning the pages of old tomes while Remus knitted in the seat beside him. And one that made him acutely recall the sensation of an itchy, wool rug - how it felt underneath when he lay eagle-spread on the Common Room floor, Lily sitting up beside him, humming melodies and tunes .. while the rest of Marauders dozed off in the armchairs.

In that moment of silence, Harry watched as for the umpteenth time today (he could hardly keep count) Sirius had the most pleasantly surprised expression on his face. A tender and small, closed smile—as if he was trying not to do it—lighting up his face.

He turned to Harry.

"Did I ever tell you how alike, you and your mother are?" he asked. Harry shook his head.

"Is it my eyes?"

"No," Sirius said, and he placed his palm against Harry's chest,

"It's your heart."

The Hearing (I)

Over the next few days Harry found himself spending more and more time with Sirius, the both of them cleaning out his old bedroom and sifting through an assortment of leftover and forgotten Muggle books and tapes, among the other things that Sirius had hidden underneath a loose floorboard. Even outside of cleaning, after supper, the both of them often sat by the fireplace and Sirius would recall fondly, old memories from the edges of his mind; Hogwart pranks, his recurring tea-time detentions with McGonagall and finally, the initial chaos that he, Remus and Harry's father went through as amateur Animagi.

"_-I didn't know quite yet how to change back, you see, so when I transformed in a rush, ears—or maybe a tail—would stick out of my human body for at least an hour afterwards."_

"_Really?!"_

"_Yes, good thing my hair was black so no one ever noticed the fur. Though, maybe they always assumed I had brewed a bad potion!" Sirius laughed._

Harry was overjoyed to know little details, like his mother's charm with the professors, his father's strange morning ritual—kissing every item of his uniform before all of his Quidditch games—and Remus being the inadvertent mastermind behind most of their weekly schemes. It made Sirius happy too, his hands unable to still out of sheer radiant excitement, his eyes lit up as well, always that little bit of laughter dancing behind the stories he'd throw out.

At times, it would become a bit odd; a thick, sort of silence falling upon Sirius mid-story or at the end, just a brief pause, a hesitant dip in his usual vigor before he continued telling the epic tale. Harry always knew that it happened whenever Peter Pettigrew came into the picture. And he had nearly forgotten that the man was one of his parents' and Sirius's closest friends.

Sirius never really mentioned Peter Pettigrew directly. He'd always catch himself before the first syllable ever left his lips, and his brow would twitch whenever he remembered about the parts Peter played in their monthly heists. At times it almost seemed like Sirius wanted ask Harry about the graveyard, probably having heard from Dumbledore or Lupin that their old friend was there that night, carrying Voldemort himself in his own arms. But whether out of respect or a certain apprehension, Sirius soon steered clear of the topic. Similarly, Harry decided not to push it as well.

Instead he turned his mind to the cleaning; grinding in a routine of early rise, dusty days and late nights, while every now and then, a visitor would disrupt their usual and peaceful normality. Snape flitted in and out of the house several times more, though to Harry's relief they never came face-to-face; he also caught sight of his Transfiguration teacher, Professor McGonagall, looking very odd in a Muggle dress and coat, though she also seemed too busy to linger. Moody had yet to drop in, at least for long enough to deal with the boggart still rattling around in the drawing-room, but Tonks joined them for a memorable afternoon in which they found a murderous old ghoul lurking in an upstairs toilet, and Lupin, who was staying in the house with Sirius but who left it for long periods to do mysterious work for the Order, helped them repair a grandfather clock that had developed the unpleasant habit of shooting heavy bolts at passersby.

—

"_Pads, why does it-"_

"_Bellatrix thought it would be a funny prank, and Mother seemed to agree."_

"_Ah,"_

—

While Harry and the others' attempted to eavesdrop and attack each visitor with their insurmountable questions, they gleaned only brief glimpses and snatches of conversation before the ever-vigilant Mrs Weasley soon called them back to their tasks. Surprisingly, however, the small snatches didn't bother Harry as much as it used to.

While at the Dursleys, he could speculate and daydream about what fun or secret adventure Ron and Hermione could've been having but here he was firmly in the same boat as them; involved but to an extent, all of them — the Weasley's, Hermione, Cedric and Harry — barred from any real information except for the scraps and tidbits they pry from here and there.

And despite the fact that he was still sleeping badly, still having dreams about corridors and locked doors that made his scar prickle, Harry was managing to have fun for the first time all summer. As long as he was busy, he was happy and with Sirius's stories, alongside Ron, Hermione and Cedric's company; he was more than, to be honest.

It was almost unsettling how relaxed he felt during the day, how much easier it was to wake up each morning knowing that Ron would be in the same room, that Hermione would be downstairs reading the paper at the table during breakfast, and that Cedric would be there to smile at him, soft and bright as always.

When the action abated, however, whenever he dropped his guard, or lay exhausted in bed watching blurred shadows move across the ceiling, the thought of the looming Ministry hearing returned to him. Fear jabbed at his insides like needles as he wondered what was going to happen to him if he was expelled. The idea was so terrible that he did not dare voice it aloud , not even to Ron and Hermione, who, though he often saw them whispering together and casting anxious looks in his direction, followed his lead in not mentioning it. He didn't even mention it to Sirius—though the latter had been trying to hint at it in their most-recent conversations—too afraid of ruining the joyfulness that Sirius had revisited in the last few weeks.

Harry tried with all his might to swallow the fear up, bury it with the cleaning and the chamomile tea and Sirius's fireplace stories but… sometimes he could not prevent his imagination showing him a faceless Ministry official who was snapping his wand in two and ordering him back to the Dursleys' .

In his mind, Harry had decided that he would not go. He was determined on that. He would come back here to Grimmauld Place and live with Sirius.

But while that thought eased him for a while, a sudden brick dropped in his stomach when Mrs. Weasley turned to him during dinner on Wednesday evening and said quietly, "I've ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning, Harry, and I want you to wash your hair tonight too. A good first impression can work wonders."

Almost immediately, Harry felt the room stiffen. He could visibly hear the conversation between Cedric, Hermione and Ginny fade away while Fred, George and Ron stopped eating (the latter choking slightly on his chops) and look over at him. Trying very hard to stay composed and to keep eating though his mouth was dry, Harry simply nodded and blinked in a rapid and very uncomposed fashion.

"How am I getting there?" he asked Mrs. Weasley.

"Arthur's taking you to work with him," said Mrs. Weasley gently. Mr. Weasley smiled encouragingly at Harry across the table.

"You can wait in my office until it's time for the hearing," he said. Harry looked over at Sirius, but before he could ask the question, Mrs. Weasley had answered it.

"Professor Dumbledore doesn't think it's a good idea for Sirius to go with you, and I must say I—"

"— think he's quite right," said Sirius through clenched teeth. Mrs. Weasley pursed her lips.

"When did Dumbledore tell you that?" Harry said, staring at Sirius.

"He came last night, when you were in bed," said Mr. Weasley. Sirius stabbed moodily at a potato with his fork. Harry dropped his own eyes to his plate. The thought that Dumbledore had been in the house on the eve of his hearing and not asked to see him made him feel, if that were possible, even worse.

Cedric stared at Harry, trying to gage what he was feeling, show some solidarity through one shared look. But Harry was too busy trying to sift through his own thoughts to even look back, not even realizing that Cedric's eyes had rested on him the entire dinner.

When the clock ticked half-past five the next morning Harry woke with an abrupt start, as if somebody had yelled in his ear. For a few moments he lay immobile as the prospect of the hearing filled every tiny particle of his brain, then, unable to bear it, he leapt out of bed and put on his glasses. Mrs. Weasley had laid out his freshly laundered jeans and T-shirt at the foot of his bed. Harry scrambled into them. The blank picture on the wall sniggered.

He looked in the bed beside him to see that Ron was fast asleep, mouth agape and eyes fluttering ever so often as he curled his arms around his blankets. Harry watched, not knowing whether he should let him sleep or whether he should wake him. Maybe Ron would weaken the tightness in his stomach? Or maybe he would make it worse... Ron never meant to, but his anxieties about the hearing were as plain as day and equally as comparable to Harry's, if not more—it had showed on his face all week.

So, vying that letting Ron sleep would be the most peaceful option, Harry decided to walk away and quietly closed the door behind him as he stepped into the second-floor landing.

"Hello," A voice suddenly said. Harry turned to his right and found Cedric sitting on the stairs that lead to the next floor, body leaning against the wall.

Harry stepped forward with a curious smile, "You're up early,"

"Yeah," Cedric said, yawning as he stood up, "—you going to the kitchen?"

As he roused, there was a slight ache in his shift and a sigh.

He seemed tired.

"Er-"

For a split second, Harry wanted to ask why Cedric was there and up so early. He had obviously been sitting on the steps for a while—not an hour but maybe half—and his eyes were droopy, a half-awake stumble in his walk. Yet as Cedric passed, lavender incense fleeting in the air behind him, a swift thought came to Harry's mind that maybe, maybe;

Cedric had woken up early just for _him_.

He played around with the idea, while Cedric looked back from the second step down,

"You coming?" he asked, voice a little coarse like it grinded closer to the bottom of his throat.

"Yes," Harry replied and as he walked forward, he felt some of the stress built up in his stomach dull down. It was only a few seconds before Harry realized that Cedric was still looking at him intently and as they made their way, his quiet morning-voice trickled out again.

"You're looking better than I thought you would..." he mumbled.

"What?"

"I just.. I'm glad that you can still smile… even for today."

Harry suddenly realized that there was a small smile, barely there, but still unconsciously brightening up what would otherwise be a very grim expression on his face. He shrugged in response.

As they descended downstairs, Cedric trying rub the sleep from his eyes and Harry with that wisp of a smile on his lips, another sound pricked their ears; they could just make out someone's voice drifting from the dimly-lit kitchen.

"If you ... serious… _exposed!"_

"I know! But… first time... Ministry… must be scared!"

As they walked closer, Harry could differentiate the voices, piecing together what sounded like an argument broiling between Sirius and Lupin.

"Dumbledore said-" Lupin started.

"I don't _care _what Dumbledore said! I want to be there for Harry!" Sirius replied,

"Sirius, he's right there are great stakes and dangers if you even go outside, let alone if you escort him!" said Mrs Weasley's softer voice. She broke into the conversation but seemed to be trying to stay hushed.

"I'm not saying that I escort him, Arthur can do that just fine! I just want to accompany—"

"You'd still going outside!" Lupin interrupted,

"Yes, as a _dog_."

"Voldemort—" and Mrs Weasley flinched at the name— "...knows that you're an Animagus! We won't know where or when Death Eaters walk among us, not outside of this house!"

"I can _handle _myself!"

By now Harry and Cedric had reached the kitchen door, but they hid beside the frame, unable to find the right time to walk in while the argument seemed to grow even more heated; Sirius insisting and stubborn, and Lupin visibly frustrated with him. In the middle of the two, Mrs Weasley made erratic moves to try and control their volumes and tones, which continued to grow only louder and snappier by the word.

"I am not doubting your skills."

"Well, it doesn't sound like it, Moony."

"There are just too many things we can't control—"

"Like what?"

"I don't know! Maybe you'll expose yourself, maybe the Ministry will catch on!"

"A fat lot of maybes there! _Maybe _I should go find out for myself and confirm your suspicions!"

"I swear to Merlin—would you just listen to yourself?! You sound like a child!"

"And you sound like an old man!"

Their voices grew louder and angrier, ringing back and forth again and again while Mrs Weasley made meek noises and stuttered in whatever conversational gap she could. Eventually overcome by curiosity, Harry and Cedric poked their heads through the door just in time as Lupin, his face a furious shade of red, split like lightning from his usual gentle persona and slammed his hand against the dining table.

"SIRIUS, I WILL NOT LOSE YOU A SECOND TIME!" he snarled. And so thunderous was Lupin, so seethingly did his voice whip the air, eyes flaming and fierce that suddenly behind Sirius; a cabinet of plates broke and shattered, exploding as if someone had keenly aimed at it with a hammer.

Harry and Cedric jumped at the noise while Mrs Weasley made a frightful cry, Sirius ducking away from splintered wood that groaned as it crumbled; as if it was put under a sudden and immense amount of stress; the glass and porcelain shards cascading off the wall.  
At once, the fire in Lupin's eyes doused as he panted, a bead of sweat slipping down his face, he began to realize what exactly he had just done.

"I didn't mean for—! Oh Molly, I'm so _sorry." _Lupin said, and when he raised his trembling hands—which had been curled fists and held, strict at his side—only then, did Harry, and perhaps the rest of the room suddenly realize how misshapen they looked; their appearance slightly dark as if he had dipped them into the mud, his fingers elongated, nails winding into sharp, _claws_.

Startled, Sirius stared Lupin with wide eyes, shock fogging his face. Mrs Weasley slapped her palm across her mouth.  
Lupin's started to breathe shallowly, "I-I-I… I need to—" he winced as he hid his hands underneath his armpits, and began to try frantically escape out of the room. Sirius tried to grab hold of Lupin's arm,

"_Remus—"_

But as soon as he reached out, Lupin slapped his hand away and unwittingly dragged his claws through the skin of his forearm in the process. Sirius yelped in sudden pain while Lupin's face went white with horror.

"Sirius, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" he said, reaching out toward him but Sirius instinctively flinched away.

"It's _fine_, its fine, just—... Moony?" He stared as Lupin backed away, his head shaking, eyes darting towards the floor.

"I need to go… I need to go ."

"No… Hang on, I'm sorry! That was just-"

"Don't follow me, Pads," Lupin said and he unsteadily stepped through the kitchen door, passing Harry and Cedric without a care as he stumbled down the dark hallway.

"Wait, listen to me!" Sirius yelled, racing after him, not noticing Harry and Cedric either as his footsteps pounded heavy against the wooden floor; his arms hurriedly flinging the door open with a sharp _BAM!_ as Mrs Black's screams started up behind him.

It was five-thirty in the morning, every street-facing window was curtained off, shrouding the pavement below in utter darkness. Only the dim streetlamp glow remained, and in this light, Sirius could narrowly make out Remus's retreating back.

"Sirius!" Harry called from the doorway, he clutched at his ears while Cedric and a surprised-but grateful-Mrs Weasley tried to pull back Mrs Black's curtain with all their might. But Sirius didn't seem to hear anything from behind, running at full-speed and all too focused on what he could see right in front of him.

"Remus, wait! Just stop for one second! We need to—" and then Sirius came to an abrupt halt, interrupted as his nose collided into Lupin's back.

For a second they stood still there, only a second, but it felt like a rather quick eternity. A little mist drifted from Sirius's nostril, London's morning cold still brutal even in the summer. Lupin was letting out the same mist, still panting, though to Sirius it sounded more as if he was gasping for air; a small panic attack wrecking Lupin's mind and body, shock registering into his reflexes.

"I didn't mean to— you know... I— you hurt me suddenly and I was just surprised that's all, I didn't—!" and for the second time Sirius was interrupted. But it wasn't as abrupt, he let himself fade away, realizing that Lupin wasn't really listening in this moment; the way his back stiffened, the way he planted his legs into the road, it was all very very wrong.

"Please… _please _just leave me alone," he said, still not turning around.

Something icy suddenly shot through Sirius's veins, but as soon as he came to his senses, lurching forward with a "WAIT!"

CRACK!

Lupin was gone.

And after a brief moment of stunned silence, Sirius realized that his arms had lunged for empty air.

A couple of meters behind him, Harry held his breath and watched as Sirius stared out into the now vacant street of Grimmauld Place. Suddenly Mrs Weasley's voice erupted, shrill and panicked, as she came up from behind.

"Where did Remus go?!"

"H-he apparated—" Harry began but Mrs Weasley had already run forward.

"You have to go after him, Sirius!" She said, clutching his shoulder, "He can't go out like that!"

But Sirius stood still, not responding, only staring out to the cars that rested by the kerb. He cradled his bleeding arm and just stared, despondent, eyes blinking rapidly.

"Sirius?" said Harry, who walked towards them.

His godfather looked up with a face lit with small surprise, "Oh Harry..." he said as if he had just noticed him, speaking in a voice barely heard.

For a second, something flashed in Harry's mind, a snippet of a memory when Sirius was only a year or so out of Azkaban; his dirty uniform hanging off his spindly body, face haggard and bleak, a harsh yellowed smile yellow and empty, black eyes that stared from the scruff of his tatty hair.

He looked terrible in that memory. Absolutely god awful. Harry wanted for him to never look that way, ever again. But for some reason… the sight in front of him now, was somehow _worse.  
_The Sirius that stood right there, dressed in his fine and clean suit, face full and body well-fed and cared for; this Sirius was more of a distressing sight than how Sirius looked the first time he had appeared in Harry's life. It took him aback, it made him freeze like he had never done so before, as if moving would crack all the veins in his body. And when he touched Sirius's uninjured arm, eyebrows knitting and voice lumped in his throat, Harry could only ask,

"Sirius…why are you _crying?" _

And at this, Mrs Weasley stopped talking as she had been the last couple of minutes, turning her head and then staring while Sirius brought his fingers to his face and blinked in sudden realization. The tears dropped from his crestfallen face, sliding down his cheeks so passively, it was as if they were never meant to be there in the first place; if you took them away, it would just look like normal Sirius minus the sagged shoulders and the line of vision that had returned to the floor. If you took the tears away, it would've just been normal Sirius, standing in the middle of the street, minus the fact that he could only gape dumbly, not knowing what to say or do next; his mouth crumpling as a torrent of emotion crashed into him.

"Molly, he can't be alone, you know that. Not right now, not like… that." Sirius finally said, his voice barely stable, eyes still blinking rapidly.

"I know, I know. We can go right now if you'd like, it's nearly full-moon so he can't have gone far—"

"No, _no_. You heard him. I can't go."

Mrs Weasley stopped, "Sirius,"

"Please, _please_. I won't ask for anything else today, I promise, just…" and Sirius suddenly stumbled forward as if he lost strength in his legs, Harry catching him right before he hit the ground, "If something happens, I—!"

Mrs Weasley sighed, an ache in her heart.

"Oh dear..." she said, carefully holding his arm. But still Sirius didn't seem to budge from his stiff shock.

"We'll find him," said voice behind Harry, it was Cedric's. "Mrs Weasley and I will go, and we'll bring him back—she's right after all, he can't have gone very far."

"Okay," Sirius said, his composure relaxing slightly, "Alright."

"Let's get him inside first." Mrs Weasley said, and she slung an arm around Sirius's waist, going back inside and shutting the door firmly behind; ignoring Mrs Black's muffled wails and violence from behind her curtain.

After they settled Sirius in an armchair—Mrs Weasley having left to scrounge around for a bandage roll in the houses many drawers—Cedric tapped Harry's shoulder and pulled him away to the kitchen.

"How are you planning on tracking Lupin?" Harry said as soon as they were out of earshot, "He could be anywhere in the country by now!"

"As far as I know the only place he can get a Wolfsbane potion is here from Snape, so, I'm sure he's still around London at least,"

"Are you sure that he's not in werewolf form right now ?" Harry said, concerned.

"I don't think he is. The full moon's still a week away—" Mrs Weasley suddenly burst in, arm full of bandage rolls. Harry and Cedric turned toward the kitchen sink.

"—I think he may only be very sensitive right now." Cedric said, muttering under his breath.

"Sensitive?"

"When you're a lycanthrope, your senses get really heightened before you transform. You hear, smell, see and taste better, so it can get really… overwhelming."

"But what's that got to do with his.. hands?" Harry asked but Cedric sighed, only shaking his head.

"In fifth-year when he taught us about werewolves, Lupin said that strange and random things can happen during the pre-transformation period. No one's ever recorded the effects so there's only so much we know..."

"And, _this _is outside of the things we know."

"Yep."

Harry sighed. Cedric touched his arm, concerned.

"Are you worried about him?" He looked pointedly at Sirius, who seemed to be getting unsatisfactory medical attention from Mrs Weasley.

"I'm worried about _Lupin _but I've never seen Sirius like that," Harry said, hesitantly. Cedric nodded.

"Yeah... I think would cry too though, if I was in his shoes."

"Really?" Harry tilted his head, "I was so surprised! I knew that they're close but I didn't think they were _that _close."

"Yeah I was surprised too, but it kinda makes sense," Cedric crossed his arms. "I always had a _feeling_, especially the other day, when Sirius asked me to move some stuff from his room—it was a bit of a shock to see Lupin's suits and stuff hanging in his closet-"

"—Wait what?"

"What?"

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"Lupin's _suits?_ Cedric, what are you talking about?"

In an instant, Cedric's expression morphed from slight confusion to a sudden revelation, as his mouth dropped to an "Oh _shi—_"

"—Cedric! Let's go, we mustn't waste time!" Mrs Weasley interrupted. She had given up on bandaging Sirius and stood by the kitchen door, holding out a coat—probably Mr Weasley's from the pattern—ready to go.

Cedric looked between her and Harry.

"I thought you knew, I thought—" His hands suddenly dove into his hair as he scratched his head in slight frustration. Backing toward Mrs Weasley he pointed at Harry, "Ask Sirius later, okay?"

"...What?"

"Just… just talk to Sirius yeah? I'm sure he'll explain if you ask... I-I'll see you soon!"

_What?!_

Harry didn't even time think before a flurry of hurried steps pounded against Grimmauld's wooden floor once again, the slam of a door echoing from the hallway. And then he was finally left alone with Sirius, a new multitude of questions to ask.


	18. The Hearing (II)

Sirius lead the way upstairs, clutching at his bleeding arm while Harry trailed behind—a fistful of bandages in hand while Mrs Weasley's healing tonics clinked inside the pouch looped around his forearm—following along until finally, they reached a remarkably tidy and clean room.

Grimmauld Place had very few neat chambers, the house itself, a conjunction of oddities; age-old heirlooms and keepsakes, luxury indulgences and flaunts, and evidence that a long line of Blacks' had walked the dim halls and paced on it's creaky steps. All manner of artefact, object and whatsit's lined Grimmauld's dusty shelves (and there were _many _of those) and even some 'cleaned' rooms—like the kitchen—were crammed with secret items hidden in plain sight; like the strange hovering jewel in the plate-cabinet or the windowsill vase that glowed indigo and popped small wafts of silvery mist at noon. In Harry's short stay, he understood how _old _and cobbled together, Sirius's house was. It was proof that the Black lineage existed. A sort-of dysfunctional, knitted-together Frankenstein of a home that fossilized the family tree through its accumulation of their _stuff_. The different layers of wallpaper peeking out from the current olive-green peel, the blackened portraits, the ever elegant but stylistic-clashing assortment of knick-knacks and furnitures; Grimmauld was akin to a museum or even an antique shop, it's entire twisted yet intimate existence similar to that of Knockturn Alley, or specifically Borgin and Burkes. 12 Grimmauld Place was a trove of memories, which was why, the stark arrangement of Sirius's room blew Harry away.

Despite all the posters and pictures Sirius had hung in his childhood bedroom, _this _room was free of any decorations, the wallpaper ripped off entirely and exposing wooden beams underneath. It's floor was clear, the bed made and even the shelves were vacant, Sirius's windows as clean or arguably _cleaner_, than any glass-pane Harry had ever seen in his life.

Sirius's bedroom was a contrast, not only to his childhood bedroom but the entirety of the _house_, and Harry could not help but feel a slight discomfort. After all, he had spent weeks being subjected to dust and towers of ancient furniture and baubles, that choking wrap of Black history and evidence shrouding every room he ventured; always lingering behind every hallway he walked through, in every corner they mopped up. Strangely, the constant reminder that humans really did live in Grimmauld, made the place less… eerie.

But in comparison to that, Sirius's room was _empty_, almost desolate.

Bare.

"Over here Harry," said Sirius suddenly, and he motioned him over before stumbling toward the bed, little gas lamps around the walls burst with flame as they walked further into the room. Harry began to treat the claw wounds with ointment, while Sirius downed two tonics, the faint scent of mint and eucalyptus helping him brave nausea and stinging pain. Carefully wrapping the bandage around Sirius's hand, Harry wordlessly made adjustments, keeping watch of Sirius's pale face and the small beads of sweat on his brow from the corner of his eye. Each flinch, grunt and uncomfortable shift carefully considered while Harry tended to the wounds as best he could.

"Here." he said eventually, "Is this alright?"

He tugged at the cloth one last time.

"Yes, yes that's fine." Sirius said. He waited for Harry to pin the bandage down before taking a moment to breathe, screwing his eyes tight—almost like he was concentrating—before he flexed his arm in and out, adjusting to the new pressure and bind.

"Careful!" Harry said, wary.

"Just trying it out," said Sirius, "I've never been scratched before."

Harry's eyebrows furrowed,  
"Are you-.. Do scratches-?"

"No!" said Sirius immediately. His eyes snapped open and he swiveled his head violently toward Harry, before continuing in a much quieter tone, "No. Only the bite of a werewolf can cause lycanthropy, scratches are… just scratches."

"Right," Harry nodded, "Then does it hurt?"

"...Well yes, of course." Sirius whispered. He had stopped flexing and started to simply stare at his bandaged arm, unable to look up as he grimaced, pained. But Harry figured that it wasn't the scratch that put such a sore expression on Sirius's face.

Taking Sirius's thoughtful silence as a small moment to relax—the panic now subsiding with his arm properly bandaged—Harry glanced about the room and realized that it actually wasn't as empty _as _he thought it was.

By the window sat a table, complete with a tea-set and a record-player on top. In front of it sat two armchairs, who faced toward the city skyline, the breach of morning sun just about to crest above London's rooftops. Next to an old armoire in the centre of the room—a tweed jacket slung over a half-open door—stood a coat rack and one battered, half-unpacked suitcase, it's clothes strewn and spilling out to the floor. From the dim light, Harry could also make out several stacks of books scattered about and after getting up to get a better look—discovering that they were in fact Muggle historical novels—Harry found more Muggle and Wizard magazines dispersed in strange places across the room, with one box of neatly organized vinyl records, beside the window.

"If you're wondering why it's so empty, it's because I didn't really have much when I moved in." Sirius said, settling in one of the armchairs. "I only grabbed things from the old bedroom and scattered them about."

"Like the Muggle books?" Harry asked, holding a copy of '_Homer's Iliad' _as he turned back.

"Oh those, I recently bought." Sirius said, getting to his feet. As he walked toward the window, he snapped his fingers and suddenly, on the table; a disc on the record-player began to spin and a familiar trumpet tune slowly trickled out into the room. Curious, Harry moved toward the window and watched in wonder as the teapot began to hover and pour steaming, hot water into two cups.

"Believe it or not, there wasn't much to do before you lot all made your way here." Sirius said, scooping a teaspoon of tea leaves into a cup. "Reading, music—I even tried my hand at arts and crafts last year."

As Sirius one-handedly made tea, Harry noticed two pieces of what seemed to be, parchment; almost entirely hidden, save for it's corners, underneath the record player. He picked them up just as Sirius sighed, attention drifting after a quick glance.

"Really, I've been showing you my worst sides this entire summer." Sirius said, teaspoon clinking on porcelain as he stirred the cup.

"No you haven't." said Harry, almost at once. Sirius gave him a weak smile.

"I'm usually more charismatic than this you know,"

"You _always _say that,"

Sirius laughed and handed over a cup of tea, which Harry gladly took. They both took long sips and cast their gaze straight ahead, eyeing what looked to be a relatively cloudy day despite the bits of dusk peeking from the horizon.

The sun would rise soon.

"Can I ask something?" Harry said.

Without looking, Sirius nodded, "Penny for your thoughts?"

"What _were _you and Lupin arguing about?"

The corner of Sirius's lip curled, "You, of course."

"Oh."

"Well not you entirely… it was more about _me_, I suppose," Sirius said, crossing his arm. "See, I wanted to accompany you and Arthur to the Ministry, as Snuffles. And as you well know from the doorway—"

"He.. didn't like the idea." Harry said, caught.

"Correct. I didn't think he'd hate the idea so much, it just felt like he was just doubting me and my abilities…" he tilted his head. "But I didn't hear him out."

"Hey," said Harry, shifting to catch Sirius's eye. "He'll be back soon. He and Mrs Weasley and Cedric will all be in Grimmauld in no time."

Sirius paused before he replied.

It was a familiar pause.

He was always vague when it came to Lupin. Harry figured that it was something that he couldn't—no, _wouldn't_—talk about. But there was something snaking in the back of his head, something that told him he couldn't leave it alone.

Not this time.

Sirius slowly drank from his cup.

"Well, I hope they come back _soon_," he said, quiet. But he didn't address the unsaid, didn't answer any of the burning questions left in the air, rattling around the walls of Harry's head; Cedric's cryptic last words felt like dice being tossed around in an empty tin can. Not knowing what else to do, Harry pulled out the two photos he pulled from the record player, bringing them into early morning light. There was a sharp intake of breath as Sirius caught sight of the figures on the first photo,

"_Oh,"_ he said, lips parted in a fond smile. "I've been looking for these!"

"They were just on the table," Harry said, "I almost didn't recognize it."

He shifted beside Sirius and properly stared at the photo as well. A group of five people stared and smiled back.

In the photo there was a young, leather-clad Sirius who smirked at them, ebony hair tumbling to his shoulders while he cocked his chin upwards, looping his arm around Lupin, who was half-hidden by his fringe; freckles and scars more pronounced as he sported a patchy, tweed-like sweater and a familiar but more awkward and unperfected grin. Beside him, Harry assumed it to be Pettigrew, looking much younger than the man he last saw in the graveyard. This one had blonde curls that bounced while he smiled nervously, both of his hands waving enthusiastically out at them while he strained to not blink. Finally, the last figures in the photo were two of whom Harry could painfully recall, having seen their older versions in the Mirror of Erised.

James, with his curly mop of a head stood proudly in the middle of the photo, his arm slung around the waist of Lily, whose freckled face and ginger hair looked ablaze while they laughed. Harry could almost hear it, the kind of beautiful laughter his mother and father would have had; it was almost there, echoing in the room. But Sirius's soft sigh took him out of the moment, back into reality. He realized that a light patter of rain had started to hit the window, and as he blinked,

He was back in Grimmauld.

"We took these after joining the Order the first time round. It was _quite _the exciting new adventure for all of us back then," Sirius said, eyes turned to crescents as he began to chuckle.

"Look at James and Lily!" he pointed his finger. "It was, quite frankly, disorienting how deeply in love your parents were."

"What were they like?"

"Disgustingly affectionate. You don't even know!"

Harry laughed. He watched as Sirius continued to smile at the photo and waited one moment more, before placing two fingers on the corner—"Sirius, tell me about this one,"—and slipping out another picture.

In this second photo only two people were captured, but in a rather comical moment; a young (though not too far away from the first picture) Sirius and Lupin leaned against what looked like the Hogwarts Quidditch stands, mouths gaping open, caught just before they could eat two rather large sandwiches. They blinked in surprise and realization towards the camera.

Sirius gave a raucous bark of laughter.

"_Gods!_ It was Lily who took this one!" He said, pulling the photo closer, his grin half-agape from laughing. "Remus and I were never meant for sports—we attended every one of your father's games of course—but to be honest, I still don't know the rules, even after all these years."

"It's not too hard of a game," Harry murmured.

"Not for jockheads like yourself and your father, but for everyone else, it's a logical nightmare." Sirius said, eyes drifting between the photos in his hands. Harry heard him mumble something like "_Gorgon! We looked awful!"_ and "_He really let me out of the house like that?"_, but despite the insults, there was something undeniable twinkling in his dark eyes.

Sirius's wrinkles and lines were still creased and aged, but Harry felt that an even older piece of sentiment melting all the hardness; he felt young, like how he'd become when he told his stories, or even sometimes in those wine-tipsy conversations he'd have with Lupin after dinner.

It made Harry stare, feel wistful.

"What was it like?"

"Sorry?"

"Being at school with everyone. My mum, dad, Lupin and Pettigrew; what was that like for you?"

Sirius turned to Harry and immediately connected his gaze with him, an abrupt sense of curiosity brimming and washing over Sirius as if it was his own. It made him pause a moment and stroke his beard, careful to consider the question. Eventually, as the croon of the record-players music faded, Sirius spoke—

"It was magical," he said, simply.

"...Magical." Harry repeated, whispering.

He looked confused.

"I didn't appreciate at the time," Sirius continued, propping the photos against the record-player. "In our world, it's something you take for granted, but my time in Hogwarts, with your parents and our friends…" Sirius beamed at Harry, brighter and brighter still,

"It was.. truly _magical_. They were my family, you know?"

Harry nodded. He knew what that felt like.

He watched as Sirius carefully stroked the faces of each person in the photo, even Pettigrew. His touch lingered on Lupin's figure.

"Is that why you cried?"

"Eh?"

"When Lupin apparated, you—"

"Oh Merlin, don't remind me of that _please." _Sirius walked back with a hollow laugh that came more out of his gut than his stomach.

"Sorry, I just—I've never seen you like that." said Harry, following him. Sirius groaned.

"You should count yourself as privileged then! Not even Buckbeak has seen me—.." Unexpectedly Harry shot a rather pointed look at Sirius, which made him burst in genuine laughter mid-sentence, "Really! It was just- I was a little shocked, is all. I didn't know that—"

He then suddenly stopped, a stutter step in his walk before he sagged into an armchair.

"What were you about to say?" Harry pressed, settling into the second one. Sirius sighed, slightly amused, "Must we never enjoy some silence and tea in any of our discussions?"

"Sirius-"

"I mean we always talk about _me!_ What about we talk about you this time, hm? I'm sure you're nervous about today but I bet—"

"You're deflecting!"

"Me? Deflect? How dare you say that to your godfather! I am appalled at the gall of your—"

"_Sirius."_ Harry said, voice a little harder. His godfather faltered slightly, the playful grin on his face waning away.

"You're.. really worried about me?" he asked, "I'm fine! It should be Remus that you should be worried about!"

"You were _crying_."

"The consequence of being swept away by the moment! Look Harry—this entire affair has… _addled _with my emotions a bit. True, I'm shaken but I-I'm O.K, in fact I'll be great! So why don't we just enjoy our tea," he said, gesturing to the tea cups they had in their laps. "And maybe I can tell you another story?"

Harry shook his head, "I hate it when you lie like that," he said suddenly.

Sirius stopped, the teacup halfway to his lips.

"I know," he said, his voice now rid of any jovial mood.

"You are not fine." Harry continued.

"I am perfectly—"

"—Not okay." Harry said, looking at him with an unbreakable stare. "You're not."

At first something glinted in Sirius's eyes, the beginnings of a joke, something to play Harry's rather unexpected seriousness (haha) off; distract him, alleviate whatever had thickened the brew of the room's tension. But as he stared longer at Harry, gaging how successful that attempt would be; he realized there wasn't even a need to calculate any odds.

Besides his eyes, Harry did not have a drop of Lily's likeness. Dark hair and even a face that resembled James, it all assembled into a certain mellowness, the air of someone often overlooked and woven into background noise. In other words, there was nothing flashy about Harry at a first glance, no eye-catching quirks or features that drew the eye to him from the throng of a crowd. His own defining mark was usually hidden behind a lump of messy hair, constantly brushed in front of his forehead; his usual choice in colors and fashion neutral, assessed to blend in with everyone else as much as possible. No, Harry was definitely James's boy. He didn't stand out like how Lily often did.

And yet, in this moment, Sirius felt like Harry was lit ablaze.

There was an intensity in his stare which penetrated, almost as if those green irises themselves danced in flame; a certain and familiar energy that Sirius knew he couldn't shake, coalescing around Harry's person; it felt exactly like the times where he could never joke anything away with Lily. It resembled all those decades ago, the pre-interrogations and urging that she'd do to make him spill and ramble about whatever feelings or internal scars he tried to hide away.

Sirius sighed.  
He was wrong.

Harry was James _and _Lily's boy, he must remember. And as the breath left his body, large, deflating. He set his tea cup aside on a little wicker table by his armrest, and pressed his nose into the cup of his palm.

"I'm-I am not… No, I'm am not okay." he admitted, finally. Harry leant over and rest his elbows against his knees,

"Talk to me." he said, almost pleading.

"Would it be enough to say that the scratch hurts more than it looks?"

"No. That's not the whole truth, is it?"

Sirius laughed bitterly, "You really are alike to- No, never mind, but you saw from the doorway. He's never looked at me like that."

"We didn't mean to eavesdrop—"

"It's alright."

"—But, yes. I saw Lupin's face. He looked _horrified,_ even though you were the one _hurt_."

"You have to understand Harry, Remus has been afflicted with lycanthropy since he was a child… Do you know what kinds of complexes that develops?"

Harry shook his head.

"He thinks he's a _monster._ Thinks that he's not worthy of the luxury of love, trust and friendship-" Harry watched Sirius's hands tense, not as fists but open-palm, claw-like.

"He's always been like this and it was always us telling him, scolding him for buying into that rubbish. '_Drivel that fanatics conjure up'_ we'd say, and yet—"

Harry began to see something curdle in Sirius's head, a boiling cauldron of molten lead frothing and almost spilling over.

"I was a hypocrite. When we were young, I told him that I'd accept him no matter what—and after all these years, he accepted me, telling me he never once believed I had killed our friends and yet I-I-I push him away because of a scratch?! "

"I'm sure that would be anyone's normal reaction, you don't need to be the exception-"

"You don't understand—! I promised him that I'd be an exception. I—we promised each other."

The lead was writhing now, shedding like snake skin and seething; the cauldron red-hot, steam and fizzing and contorting bubbles that morphed but never popped blending into pure awful,

"I don't understand-"

"I can't explain what I was thinking at the time, but as soon as I pushed him away.. I _knew_. All he saw in me was another victim. He didn't see his friend, his partner... He didn't see _me_,"

"Hold on, I-"

"How infuriating! All these years trying to build him up and now its my fault that he loses his confidence—!"

"Sirius!" Harry grabbed his hand. His head spun with the flood of words, a thread of logic tucked between each vowel yet he couldn't get enough sense to connect it, Sirius's rant gushing much too fast and new for his mind to wrap around.  
There was only one clear thought in his mind, one burning question that left from his lips,

"Why did you cry?" he asked.

But when thinking about Sirius's elusiveness, the way he skipped around Lupin's name and topic. How he would light up after Mrs Weasley would set a spot for Lupin before dinner, how Lupin would bring sweets and a particular bottle of wine for Sirius every time he came back. Thinking about the photos that Sirius kept and the stickers on the battered suitcase in the corner, the patchy tweed suit jacket hung over the closet door; Harry realized that there were two armchairs, and two bedside tables and two teacups. And if he looked, he was sure that Cedric's slip of tongue would make sense, that Lupin's suits would be found in Sirius's wardrobe. And if he had a second longer, he could draw a clear picture out of the dots and clues, fit a jigsaw puzzle together out of the talk of promises and _partner's_, he could pick into why Sirius cried and why Lupin ran away.

But he didn't need to.  
Because as soon as he asked, as soon as his mind began unravel that red yarn and pull out an idea; in that moment, Sirius dipped his face into his hands. Like a beacon, a beam of sunlight hit his figure and finally—

"Because I love him, Harry," he said. "Because, I _love _him."

Sirius lifted his face from his hands, and for the second time this morning, Harry watched as a stream of tears came running down his godfather's cheek; his hair, his eyes and his tears all glinting in the sunlight.

"Not like a… brother!" Sirius laughed, strained. "And more than a friend, I love him more than myself, most days,"

"I don't even need to try to do it, I just love _him_. He was the only thing that kept me sane in Azkaban, and now with you," And at this point Sirius gave in; a sob that was trapped in his throat, spilled out in the break of his voice. His chest and shoulders heaved and shook as he lifted up a hand to cover his eyes, trying to cover the tears.

"You and he are the only things that keep me alive," he wrenched out, his voice edged into a whimper.

Harry didn't breathe.

He didn't dare move or make a sound as Sirius shifted in his seat.

"And now, it is killing me to know that I made him look like that... And I know him, Harry. He feels guilty, he feels wrong. He feels like the 'monster' he always thought he was, and it's _my _fault, I failed him, I—"

"Don't. It wasn't, it isn't."

"I made him disappear."

Harry reached over and wrapped his arms around Sirius, "Stop that, stop it." he said. It felt like he was going to cry too.

"It wasn't your fault," he continued, "It wasn't _anyone's_."

And at this, Sirius didn't say anything more. He simply clung to Harry and cried, silent.

"He'll be back Sirius, he will." Harry said, squeezing him tightly.

"How do you know?" came Sirius's raspy voice.

"Because he loves you too," Harry said.

There was still no reply. But he felt Sirius pause and then squeeze, just as tightly back.


	19. The Hearing: Conclusion

It took half and hour, 3 cups of tea and one awkward moment where Mr Weasley walked in—wondering where everyone had gone and anxious about getting himself and Harry to the Ministry—before walking straight out, with a timid "_Sorry!",_ before things finally calmed down within the room. By now the sun had just peeked above the horizon and Harry and Sirius were doused in warm light, beams pouring from the window as from the bell of the record-player, a light piano melody seeped into the background. Sirius, dazed, sat in his chair; his and Harry's hand still fiercely clasped together, the both of them processing everything that just happened through their heads.

"So you and Lupin…" Harry said, trying to keep nonchalant. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sirius perk up, concern sharpening his previously dull expression,

"Yes. Remus and… _I,"_ he repeated, clearing his throat.

Harry paused, "... Huh ."

Sirius stayed silent.

"I didn't know," Harry said. Sirius let out a little unexpected laugh, dry.

Nervous.

"We kept it quiet in the past, you see. Only James, Lily and Peter knew."

"...And Mrs Weasley,"

"Ah yes, she asked me if we would have a wedding, perhaps… one week into living in the house,"

_Of course, _Harry thought.

"Oh, and Cedric," he added. Sirius swiveled toward him with large eyes.

"He saw Lupin's suits in your closet," Harry explained, and Sirius promptly buried his face into his hands.

"Of course!" he said. He thread his fingers through his hair in an embarrassed and frustrated fashion, grumbling into his hands. As Harry's laughter faded, there was another moment's silence before Sirius abruptly spoke again,

"What do you think?" he said, face still stuck behind his palm.

As Harry turned toward him, Sirius straightened and fiddled with the rings on his fingers, twisting and plopping them on and off; torso turned, but eyes unwilling to look anything square in the face.

"What do I _think?"_ repeated Harry, confused.

"Yes, you—…" Sirius paused, "—you don't have anything to say?"

"Er—I didn't know I needed to say something."

"Well you don't _need _to, I would just like to.. hear your thoughts."

It's an innocent sentence for anyone not searching for context.

But for many out there, there was enough to understand in that quarter of a moment; it was a string of words laden with a certain weight, something… probably heavier in the Muggle world.

Sirius didn't usually care, it was rare for the wizarding world to, save of course—and as always the exception—his pureblood parents.

But Harry was different. _Special._

Someone important enough to Sirius to _make _him care; a wizard raised in a Muggle house and he fully knew what Sirius was really asking for.

He had spent years with the Dursleys after all.

Even if he didn't scavenge every newspaper they threw away, he'd know full well what kind of goings-on happened in the world Mugglekind; Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon and Dudley never let go of the chance to express contempt at a "new" or "strange" thing that popped up, outside of the Privet Drive's norm.

And even without that, after all this time Harry had spent with Mrs Figgs—so much time in fact, that the backstory of each cat framed on her wall was embedded in great detail inside his head—he would've known that a man could love man and a woman, a woman. Or even both, or none or everyone other or in between.  
Mrs Figg knew a great deal about the world, but when she was in a good mood, she would tell him more personal tales. Little stories of a "friend" she had framed inside her locket, and Harry didn't need to deduce much to know that it was the same girl that she had a picture with on her mantel, one that showed two young women curled up in a hammock, with one (who looked like a much younger and wilder Mrs Figgs) about to plant a kiss on the other equally beautiful girl, caught mid-laughter.

Post-Dementor attacks, he finally understood why Mrs Figg asked him to keep quiet about it. After all, she was tasked with protecting Harry whenever and, possibly, forever. If Harry were to let it slip about her "friend", the Dursley's would never let him go to her house, even if they hated Harry so much so.

But now a sudden realization hit him like a bag of bricks; he never _really _understood. He didn't really get why she kept the locket always shut until she had drank just one glass of wine, or, why the picture would always be hidden by that gaudy porcelain cat statue on the weekdays—it was more than just trying to keep Harry close.

He looked at Sirius's expression and he _knew_. That hesitance, the discomfort all spelled out on his face; it was the same look given to him last year, when he had walked into the common room and accidentally discovered Seamus holding Dean's hand in secret, while he slumped over the arm of a chair, asleep. As soon as their eyes had met, Seamus let go of Dean and stomped away, not one word exchanged between them since that incident.

Instead, that night, Seamus's brow was knotted for hours, his glances thrown towards Harry's direction so frequently that even Ron and Hermione asked if something happened between them during dinner. And for a whole year, Seamus hesitated to talk to Harry alone. Always avoiding him when they were the only ones left in the dorms or the common room. Harry chalked it up to the tournament, he never really got to talk to Seamus about what he saw. He was too busy. He had told himself that they'd talk at the start of next year.

But there was sneaking suspicion that lay, caught on the hook of that excuse…

Maybe Harry was _trying _to avoid it.

It was the first time he'd ever seen something like _that_, understanding so clearly what that sight entailed, knowing so acutely the colour of thought that ran through Seamus's head in that very instance.

The news was just words on page, flashing color on the screen of the telly, and Mrs Figg's stories; the photo—a distant memory, meant only for her eyes and her mind.

Harry understood that men could love men; and women, women. Or even both, and none and everyone other or in between.

He knew, he _understood_.

Yet the weight, that reality for those men and for those women, these people… it never fully hit Harry until he saw Seamus's face; first, the affection. The warmth, the cradled love and second; something that he's seeing again now—

Sirius's.

That well-hidden but intense fear, curdling behind wide eyes. That crushing have-to-wait for judgement moment, like he _had _to be judged. Like what Harry had to say really _mattered_.

Harry began to regret last year's choice to stay silent.

"Does he make you happy?" he said, carefully.

Sirius blinked before he slowly nodded, "I- Yes, yes he does. Though I must say, today was no representation of—"

"Then that's great! He makes you happy and he definitely cares about you. That's good, right?"

"Well yes but—"

"I don't think it matters what I have to say but," Harry squeezed his hand, "I'm really happy that you found each other, er… again. You both deserve it."

"I...Thank you," Sirius looked down apprehensively.

"Did I say it wrong?"

"No, no! I know what you're trying to say. It's surprisingly…" Sirius gestured, trying to figure out the word, "—mature. I didn't really know what to expect after confessing to be honest, I thought maybe you'd find me disgusting."

"Really?" said Harry, incredulous.

"Well I hear that currently, Muggles are divided on that sort of thing,"

"Some of them, yeah" Harry nodded, "But not everyone. Besides, I think I've spent more time in Britain's wizarding streets than I have on Muggle ones."

Harry couldn't even begin to count the amount of couples he'd have to shove through in Diagon Alley, never mind caring which couples held hands with who as they strolled it's cobbled streets. There'd always be one or two shopping in Flourish and Blotts for matching diaries—which actually got onto Ron's nerves after a while—and Harry could recall one particularly unfortunate time where Mr Fortescue's parlour was crammed with pairs lured in by his Love Day Special; he, Ron and Hermione having to spend half an hour in line just to get two scoops of ice-cream _each, _after they finally reconciled last year. Harry told Sirius about the first time he visited, where he saw one particular witch dragging her girlfriend over to Quality Quidditch Supplies so they could get matching broomsticks, and another memory where he distinctly remembered feeling sorry for an older wizard couple in the window of the Apothecary; who tried their hardest to sniff scented potions over the shop's notorious and overwhelming bad eggs and rotten cabbage stench.

Sirius chuckled. He imagined an 11-year old Harry, wide-eyed in the bustle of the street.

"So when you first walked down a wizarding street, did the sight of these same-sex couples surprise you?"

"A little, but there were other things that were much more unbelievable. You know… the self-deconstructing brick wall, my first attempt at finding my own wand resulting in Ollivander's shop being turned inside-out and riding a cart through the bank's gigantic underground railroad system? Oh! And let's not forget the floating brooms—"

Sirius roared with laughter, "Merlin you're right! It was probably the least weirdest thing of your day,"

"You don't have to do that,"

"What?"

"It wasn't _weird._ And it's still not weird."

"Oh.." Sirius gave a shy sort-of smile. "Yes, I suppose… I suppose, I should stop being so apologetic."

"Agreed. it's very unlike you firstly," Sirius laughed again,

"And also, they're just them and you're just you. I'll be honest, I never gave this much thought, but, really it doesn't change much, does it?" said Harry, phrasing it more like a statement than a question.

Sirius beamed at him, smiling so widely that Harry forgot that he had been crying ten minutes ago.

"You don't… find it strange?"

"No! I promise! It'd be weirder if I did-"

"Yes, yes I understand that now. But… you don't find it strange that your godfather-slash-uncle is practically married to your ex-teacher?" he asked.

"Oh…" Harry paused, "Well—"

When you put it _that _way…

There was a slow creak as the door opened, and suddenly, Sirius and Harry turned to find Lupin in the doorway; a very somber expression on his face. Behind him Cedric flashed a cautious and wide-eyed expression at Harry as the two filed in, a sober silence settling into whatever jovial mood fluttered about the room seconds before.

Sirius squeezed Harry's hand. It sent worry worming its way into his gut.

Harry was both glad and nervous about Lupin's presence in the room. He noticed that the sleeves of his suit were slightly tattered—more than they usually are—and his hands, though discolored, were back to human fingers. Physically, he seemed okay but there was an unmistakable red ring underneath his eyes, and the way he held himself; hunched, shoulders closing in and head held towards the floor—

Lupin looked less okay than Sirius originally was, and as Harry looked between the both of them, two questions filled his head to the brim; _how did Mrs Weasley and Cedric even find him? And would it be okay for them to even see each other right now?_

The silence gave Harry plenty of time to ponder, tension thick and it almost felt like there was physically something, a little awkward and a little rusty grating in the air. The piano still played in the background, and Harry's back was warmed by the sun; he could feel the rough fabric of the couch and the creak of floorboards as Lupin and Cedric stepped through, registering, hyper-fixated in his conscious. But then he felt Sirius's grip relax, his hand slipping through Harry's, lips parting to draw one breath;

Harry could almost understand what exchange of conversation went on between their locked eyes, the tension, the silence, conveying years more than what Harry could ever begin to even understand.

Without skipping a beat, Harry grabbed Sirius's hand and pulled him out of the chair, onto his feet; before gently pushing him towards Lupin. And in the same momentum of movement, a little adrenaline coursing through his veins, Harry grabbed Cedric's wrist and pulled him towards the door.

Before Sirius could even utter, before Lupin could even realize what had just happened, Cedric waved a nervous goodbye while Harry threw a "_I'll leave you two to it!"_ over his shoulder, the both of them bolting and leaving the two alone in the room, with a single click of the knob.

Immediately outside the door, Cedric turned to Harry, worried;

"Okay, so now do you—"

"—Yeah,"

"They're toge—"

"I know,"

"...Well do you think they'll be okay?!"

Harry, strangely out of breath, thought back to the moment Sirius had loosened his hand. Despite being in a panic with his own thoughts, Harry watched as Lupin lifted his head, gaze up and already staring at Sirius from where he stood and Harry _swore;_ it was almost as if neither Harry nor Cedric were even in the room.

The rust and awkward grating in the air was nothing _bad_.

The tension, the silence, their eye-contact—

"They'll be fine," Harry heard himself say, " —they're in love."

And it was cheesy and cliche and _God _he would never hear the end of it if George or Fred were in the hallways as well; but he knew he was right, because there was _weight _there. Weight that, again, he never really understood until now. And as if confirming his thought, that tug of intuition in his gut, a little bit of laughter came out of the room. It was Sirius's, soft, gentle.

Both Harry and Cedric paused before looking at each other, incredulous in their expression, but smiles glad.

As they made their way downstairs, Harry realized that the thought of the Ministry and his hearing was now duller; a smaller pit in his stomach despite its happening about to clock him, more directly in the face. The prospect of expulsion, the potential punishment, the dark dingy room and multitude of eyes he kept seeing in his dream; it still terrified him.

But no matter what happened, he made a decision.  
After the hearing, he really ought to send Seamus an apology letter first.


	20. Extra:Beans

Harry made his way downstairs, silent as Cedric trailed behind him.

"arry... H…"

Though somewhat alleviated, the nervousness about the trial still gripped his heart. He figured that no amount of shocking revelation would take away from the thought of going to the Ministry or even worse, _ leaving _Hogwarts…

"Ha-… -rry… _ Oi, _ Harry!"

Cedric's voice blinked Harry out of his stupor. He turned to face him, "What's wrong?" but before Cedric could even respond, Harry soon realized that he was still holding onto his wrist.

"Oh! Sorry!" he said, letting go.

"No, I didn't mean—" Cedric moved forward and made to grab Harry's hand before abruptly pausing; his own hand hovering mid-air as he realized what he was just about to do.

"Cedric?"

"Oh, I was—… I was just—"

"HARRY POTTER, YOU BETTER GET A MOVE ON OR YOU'LL BE LATE FOR YOUR HEARING!" came Mrs Weasley, screeching from downstairs. Harry sighed.

"C'mon, you heard her," he said, smiling weakly. Cedric nodded and followed him down the stairs once more. But this time, behind his back, his fingers brushed around the wrist Harry had held.

* * *

"Is it alright if I send a letter from here?" said Cedric. Beside him at the dining-table, Harry was trying to scoop as many baked beans and toast inside his mouth without letting it drip onto his newly-ironed suit.

"Of course! Though you can't say much about your current living situation, dear, even if she _ is _your girlfriend," Harry heard Mrs Weasley reply.

"Right… Well don't worry, I was just sending these to my friends,"

"Oh! Sorry Cedric, go right ahead! Errol will be pruning himself on a windowsill, I bet." Mrs Weasley replied, and then she darted into the hallway, a laundry basket held against her hip.

Munching on breakfast, Harry turned to Cedric, "You're not going to write to Cho?"

"No, these are to my friends," Cedric said again, quickly flashing the names _ 'Evan' _ and _ 'Hidiyah' _on his envelopes. "They're probably worried, I haven't written to them since I came to Grimmauld."

Harry nodded. He was slightly confused, wondering why Cho wouldn't as worried as Cedric's friends, if not _ more _.

"I'll tell you later if you like," Cedric said, watching him with a slightly amused smile.

"...Was it on my face?" Harry said.

"Yes, along with the bits of beans and bread—" said Cedric circling the entirety of his mouth—

"Oh shut it!" Harry said. He watched as Cedric doubled over, crumpled by the pain of Harry's fist against his shoulder but still laughing weakly into his hands.

Harry took it back.

Maybe there _ were _some things that could make him feel less anxious today.


	21. The Locked Drawer

Harry stepped through the door of Grimmauld Place feeling as though the bones inside his legs could sink into the floor. He could feel his body pining for a bed, felt his shoulders sag and his spine hunch over, and yet, anyone within a fifteen foot radius could feel the sharp contrast of his spirit; a look of undeniable satisfaction, dancing upon his features. When Harry walked forward he, quite simply, sprung; bright and light-footed in the first few paces before abruptly, a certain excitement overtook him and he galloped through the hallway—past Mrs Black's fits behind the curtain—and rushing to the warm glow of the kitchen where, in a stroke of luck, everyone could be found; The Weasleys, Sirius, Lupin, Hermione, and surprisingly, Madeye.

Lunch was about to be served as a cauldron gurgled in the fireplace and a kettle bubbled steam. At the dinner table, Fred and George had already begun to dig in while Moody was but a few seconds away from a sip of his flask. But the clatter of plates, the light conversation exchanged in the air, soon came to a halt as Harry burst in; the room almost hitching it's own breath while Harry's heart, quite frankly, swelled with the familiar sights and sensations around him—he had never felt so glad to be in Grimmauld.

Gone was the Ministry's basement dungeon. Gone were it's dark marble halls and a jury bench stacked with those cold faces who peered and stared straight into his very being. The cold touch of the courtroom's iron chair, the sight of Dumbledore's back from his whirlwind entrance to his whirlwind exit, gone was the tittering voice of that toad-like woman; the sting of Lucius Malfoy's post-trial jabs.

All the awfulness melted away as Harry faced all that he could call close to a family, his eyes taking in his friends—who were both half-surprised and anticipating—whose presence were a simple and joyous answer to all the prayers he had whispered today.

"Cleared," he said, a big grin spread across his face as he took off his coat and threw it toward the hanger, hooking it on perfectly, "I'm cleared of all charges!"

Almost immediately a ruckus ensued; Lupin stood up so suddenly that his chair fell over while Ginny let out a loud gleeful squeal, one that caused Crookshanks—who had been sunbathing—to snap and straighten defensively on the windowsill.

Sirius, meanwhile, ran over and scooped Harry into a hug that lifted his feet a few inches from the ground. And soon as he was set down, Hermione and Ron promptly crashed into it as well, their arms clamped around Harry so tightly that he could barely hug back. Instead he let the bubbly feeling in his heart swell and watched Fred and George conjure two small stream of fireworks, that lit the kitchen in trails of purple and orange smoke, fizzing and swimming around his head in a dizzy spin of sparkling flame.

Amidst the celebration Mrs Weasley made her way toward Mr Weasley, who had come through the kitchen doorway mumbling about '_..how nervous I was until Dumbledore arrived… Harry was being tried by a full court!'_ But as everyone around gathered around Harry, their smiles wide and hands in the air… for the moment Mr Weasley seemed just as, if not more, relieved than the rest of the room.

"I knew it!" yelled Ron, punching the air. "You always get away with stuff!"

"They were bound to clear you," said Hermione, who had looked positively faint with anxiety when Harry had entered the kitchen and was now holding a shaking hand over her eyes. "There was no case against you, none at all..."

"Everyone seems quite relieved, though, considering they all knew I'd get off," said Harry, smiling. With Mr Weasley's arm around her shoulders, Mrs. Weasley wiped her face on her apron while, Fred, George, and Ginny were doing a kind of war dance to a chant that went "He got off, he got off, he got off—"

"That's enough, settle down!" shouted Mr. Weasley, though he too was smiling. "Listen, Sirius, Lucius Malfoy was at the Ministry—"

"What?" said Sirius sharply. His grip around Harry tensed.

"He got off, he got off, he got off—"

"Be quiet, you three! Yes, we saw him talking to Fudge on level nine, then they went up to Fudge's office together. Dumbledore ought to know."

"Absolutely," said Sirius. "We'll tell him, don't worry."

"Well, I'd better get going, there's a vomiting toilet in Bethnal Green waiting for me. Molly, I'll be late, I'm covering for Tonks, but Kingsley might be dropping in for dinner—"

"He got off, he got off, he got off—"

"That's enough—Fred—George—Ginny!" said Mrs. Weasley, as Mr. Weasley left the kitchen. "Harry dear, come and sit down, have some lunch, you hardly ate breakfast…"

Admittedly, Harry remembered eating an entire bowl of baked beans that morning but could hardly argue when he caught sight of a pie—that suspiciously looked like treacle tart—baking golden in the oven. Sitting down beside Moody, Harry felt his hand clap his shoulder from behind.

"Congratulations boy, 'm glad they saw the nonsense in punishing you for a bit of self-defense…"

"Indeed. I'm glad that you're going back to Hogwarts," said Lupin to Harry. He walked by with a plate on one hand and the other ruffling through his hair.

"Thank you—" he replied breathlessly, glad to find that Lupin's fingers had seemingly gone back to being human, and unable to put off what he assumed was a ridiculously large grin on his face— "Is Cedric around? I wanted to tell him the good news as well..."

"Oh dear, I think he's upstairs," said Mrs Weasley, putting a hand to her cheek, "He did say he was going to finish the drawing room today."

"I'll go and get him," said Harry.

As he left the kitchen's pleasantry, the glow and the clattering of plates and chatter put behind his back; Harry felt the weariness settle once more, down into his bones. His inner brightness did not waver at all, but as he made his way up the stairs in the hallway, past the stuffed elf-heads, he became glad to be on his own again; climbing step with the half-mind to get Cedric, tell him the news and then promptly fall into bed and deal with everything later. But as Harry approached the first landing, a very sharp and rather brusque series of noises jolted his drifting mind wide awake.

First, there was clattering; a thudding that hit hard against the floor as if someone had run across with heavy boots, the way Dudley would very intentionally step into the staircase when Harry inhabited the Dursley's broom cupboard all those years ago. Then, thump!

It was very hefty, very noticeable _thump!_ as if something dense had been shoved against the wall.  
Harry waited, holding his breath.

Silence.

Completely unsettling and distilling the air that hung before.

"Hello?" he said, calling out to the empty staircase. There was no answer.

From below the stairs he could still hear chatter from the kitchen. There was the sound of Ron laughing—no doubt at something Ginny or Hermione had said—and a 'ding!' as the oven's timer chimed. Nobody had stepped out into the hallway, or even seemed to notice the loud noises from above.

Everything _seemed_ normal.

Perhaps he had imagined it, out of his tired state. Perhaps there was an utterly mundane and logical reason that Harry had yet to have thought. But there was little Harry could do to shake off this sudden feeling of anxiety. It washed over him and curled like mist, the type that vagued distant shadows on plains and fields during foggy mornings. Not knowing what to do, Harry cautiously made his way up a few more steps until—

CRACK!

A guttural shout rang out alongside a quick burst of red light, that flashed through the banister of the third floor. At once, Harry darted up the stairs, quickening his pace and climbing two, then three steps at the time; his gut tightening as he sprinted forward and his head crystallized with the fear that something was very, very wrong. Rounding the staircase, Harry realized he was heading for the drawing-room and as soon as he could reach, he twisted the knob and threw his shoulder into the panel, flinging the door open.

"Cedric!" he called. But there was only one person in the room, a lot larger and stooped over than how Cedric usually looked. Before he could call out once more, the figure turned it's head and a familiar, sneering face suddenly made all the air vanish from Harry's lungs. He stumbled back and drew his wand, feeling as though he was falling through the floor, "_Pettigrew?!" _

Moody had said that no one besides those Dumbledore trusted could enter and yet Peter Pettigrew was **here**; staring at the walls with cold eyes and a spindly smile. He looked almost exactly the same as he did that night in the graveyard—albeit, strangely bigger and more menacing—the same tattered tartan suit and cloak, both of his hands still visibly flesh, and in the same arm as Harry recalled all those months ago; he held a bundle of cloth close to his chest. When it wriggled, familiar arrows of ice shot through Harry's heart.

_No, no, no, __**no.**_ It couldn't be.

A small head poked out, the snatches of it's upper torso pale and parched, the lines of blue veins visible even from where Harry stood. And as he took a sharp breath; that weak, terrible voice rasped the words that he had been trying to banish from the back of his mind for so long,

"_Kill the spare!"_

A green light pooled at the end of Peter's wand but it didn't point at Harry, instead the floorboards began to groan as Peter moved toward a corner in the room where someone else had been cowering, hidden against the farthest wall.

"Don't come any closer! I'm warning you!" a familiar voice cried.

Harry felt as though someone had just punched him in the stomach, and watched as _Cedric _stood in the corner, jutting out his wand with both hands, but with eyes so wide and fraught with terror that his entire body shook; wracked and twitching, heaving as though every breath that passed through was thick and choked the chest.

"Riddik- I, _ha… _Riddiku-!"

He was hyperventilating, unable to get the spell out, unable to get past the cold that gripped his entire being, the blinding fear of the visage; this large, malicious man with a face that—in Cedric's mind, seemingly—morphed in and out of proportion.

He hadn't noticed Harry, hadn't noticed that the door had flung open or that there was a real person in the doorway trying to shout at him. Actually as soon as Peter Pettigrew's form manifested, squirming his way out of the desk like a dead body from a coffin; Cedric began to forget what _was _real. He forgot what he was doing, instantaneously gripped by sheer terror that he had blindly cast _Expelliarmus!_ while trying to run away. As he stood, face slack and completely at the mercy of the tremors that shot through his body, his mind flashed and began projecting, pulling out visions entirely suspect to 'reality', memories and memories of the dreams that had always slipped him by. Cedric's body began to seize up and the room's walls began to melt down, the house and then the street outside bleached white, and then the floor spiraling down down down before suddenly he could smell _dirt_; and suddenly he could feel cold night air pricking goosebumps into his skin, and suddenly he could see the distant mountain range and an old crumbling house on a hill far far away and suddenly, he could hear the grate of iron on stone, the scent of sulfur and decay and suddenly, and suddenly, and suddenly, _and suddenly—_it was the graveyard, the graveyard, THE GRaVEyARD, **the graveyard;** the tombstones, the Death Eaters, his nightmares —and it was as if Cedric had never left at all, like he was still stuck in the final task, trapped in the moment when the green light soared across the darkness—the sweat, the dirt, the grime dripping and burning him like candle-wax; the light growing bigger and bigger as his own screams seared into his mind and he knew it would only be moments until his world would burn emerald fire and turn cold and dark, and then he would be dead again and then—

Harry's voice came bellowing in Cedric's ear.

"_**GET OUT OF THERE!"**_ he screamed.

Cedric snapped out of his vision, suddenly back in Grimmauld's drawing-room; the olive-green walls surrounding and wooden planks underneath his feet. His eyes darted around just in time to watch as Harry rushed through, throwing himself in front and pointed his own wand forward. At once, Pettigrew and Voldemort vanished into a swirl of other horrible faces, maws, and half-formed bodies while Harry readily raised his arm, his wand radiating vibrant white. Behind him, Cedric felt his knees buckle and he lurched forward, as if his body turned to stone.

As he fell, he could've sworn that a chorus of angels serenaded him as he dropped lower, down down down, singing and promising—all while the ground rushed forward to greet him. He could barely discern something shadowy and dark hovering in the room, as if a person-shaped hole had torn itself into reality. But bit by bit his sight and hearing faded, the song around him muffled and the sight Harry's back dimming. Cedric could only make out Harry thrusting a torrent of white light against the desk before promptly, he hit the drawing-room's hard wooden floor.

* * *

Frantically, Harry wiped the sweaty hair away from Cedric's forehead—feeling for a bruise, a bump—while holding his upper body up with the other arm. Unable to tear away from Cedric's pale face, he waited as several footsteps pounded up the second-floor stairs before they stopped at the doorway.

Lupin ran inside the room, panting, "What happened?"

"The desk—" Harry said, suddenly realizing how dry his throat had become, "It-...The boggart became _Pettigrew!_ It became him before he, he—"

"Say no more, son," grunted Moody, who limped over, glass eye whirling around while his real one focused intensely on Cedric. "You get rid of the thing?"

"I did…" he said breathing heavily, watching as Moody bent over to examine Cedric, "He couldn't even say Riddikulus, he couldn't cast the spell—"

"S'what happens when yer _scared,_ Potter," said Moody.

"Harry, let's get him off the floor, yes?" beckoned Sirius from behind. Harry looped his arms around Cedric's waist as Lupin and Sirius took his legs, lifting him onto a nearby couch.

"He's fainted?" Lupin said, as they moved him.

"Most likely," said Moody, he began sifting through a leather pouch hanging at his belt. The sound of clinking bottles and flasks jingled in the silent room. Harry knelt by Cedric as he groaned, his fingers digging into and grabbing a fistful of exposed coach foam.

Moody finally took out a vial that seemed to have some sort of plant growing inside—a cluster of tiny, blue flowers—before he held it, uncorked, underneath Cedric's nose, "Might be a bit feverish, but just let him smell some of this and he'll come to."

A few seconds passed before, like he said, Cedric's eyes fluttered open and Harry let out a sigh of relief. But as soon as the moment passed, he leapt out of the way, Cedric suddenly jerked upright—his legs kicking out as he bent forward, arms flailing.

Swiftly, Moody snatched the vial away, "Breathe boy, _breathe!"_ he said as Cedric clutched at his throat, eyes bulging, his lips pressed closed.

"We need to hold him down!" cried Sirius but before they could get close to Cedric's thrashing limbs, Harry almost immediately lunged forward, reaching over to Cedric with the butt of his wand and pushing upward in a quick and concise strike that jammed against his stomach.

At the impact of the blow, Cedric made a sudden gasp for air before a fit of coughs gurgled out of his throat.  
Something throbbed as if shattered glass had been rubbed in between his eyes and his breath felt thick in his chest, like the air was too much to squeeze inside his lungs. Harry held Cedric upright while he choked on his own spit, feeling so short-winded that his own arms loosened beyond his control; his legs also too heavy to move. It didn't even feel like his body was his own, the sudden sensation of utter uselessness slowly seeping into him like a state of shock.

Desperately, Cedric tried to scramble to his feet, his hand blindly sifting for the solid arm of the couch, but something abruptly pulled him down by the hem of his shirt while Harry's torso—which he had unwittingly clung to—stiffened against his attempts to stand.

"Let go," Harry said. His voice sounded like the room was underwater, "You're in no state right now to get up, _let go."_

Cedric tried to ignore him, tried to tell Harry that he was fine, and even when the words couldn't come out—his throat too dry—he made another attempt to stand up again. But as soon as Cedric stood vertical, weight balanced in one foot, he felt the room swivel and his mind slosh like he was being tossed around inside a corked bottle. Immediately, he succumbed to the feeling of lead lining his body and crumpled back into Harry's arms, closing his eyes once more to try and get rid of the dizziness.

"Catch your breath Cedric," someone pleaded. Panting and feeling the sweat on his nape, Cedric obediently sunk into the couch and began to take deep, shaky gulps of air, pressing his forehead against Harry's shoulder as he caught his breath; the distant whine fading as proper sound returned to his ears.

"Here Potter," someone else said, once Cedric stilled. A familiar scent drifted around him again. It helped his eyes—heavy as they were—open red and watery. Cedric lifted his head up and squinted past Harry's shoulder; vision yet to sharpen or register but still flinching from the brightness of the windows.

"Still here?" said Moody's voice.

Cedric felt Harry's warm hand on his back, comforting as the afternoon light gleamed brighter.

"Still here," he replied, wheezing.

Harry felt Cedric's head slump back into his shoulder. He looked _exhausted_; his breaths a little too shallow while his hair stayed slick with sweat. Glancing back, Harry watched as Moody made his way to the desk with a grimace while Sirius and Lupin stood by, their brows furrowed and hands at the ready for another fit.

Peter Pettigrew's sinister face slithered into Harry's head. He cursed under his breath and tightened his grip, whispering an apology in Cedric's ear with burning eyes, and a deep knot of discomfort plunged into his stomach as he realized that the twisted, hulking and evil boggart-form of Peter _is what he sees in his dreams._

Harry swallowed, biting his tongue as the thudding, the flash of red light and shouts replayed in the back of his mind. He felt Cedric, with as much strength as he could muster, squeeze back.


	22. Aftermath

f one were to take a brief moment outside of the human perception of time, and evaluate the wizarding world's going-ons in the last fifteen years; they would notice that so far, there have been three major events that have shaken the current day.

The first two were obvious. The birth of the Boy Who Lived (alongside the adjacent 'death' of Tom Riddle) and this Boy's eleventh summer—the reignition of a history that never really was, history. The third event, however?

Contentious.

In the current climate, those who believed in Harry Potter and Cedric Diggory's tale would say that it'd be Voldemort's rebirth, the renewal of both the Death Eaters and it's counterpart, the Order of the Phoenix. For those who didn't believe in them, it would be the creation of the Boys Who Lied, the seeming conjuration of some false prophetic movement headed by fanatics of their own names.

In retrospect it'd still be safe to say that life changed for many after the events of the Triwizard Tournament, some more than others, and Cedric knew this well enough.

Waking up after nightmares, unable to discern between the morph of a dream and one's own sense of reality was terrible. It was the one thing leftover from last year that he resented. However it would be an entirely different thing comparably, to wake up one day and then realize—you are still dreaming.

It happened two days after he was downed by a fever, the encounter with Grimmauld's boggart taking more of a toll than anyone had anticipated.

First, he had opened his eyes to an inky darkness, no ground beneath his feet; no mountains against the horizon or any discernible hills lumped around him. Just an endless black that mimicked the night sky, stretching ways before him. As he spun around looking, searching for something distinguishable, strangely enough—he felt steady on his feet. For there was no ground and yet he simply stood, neither falling or floating, everything around him tranquil. It was so odd, so unlike all the other dreams that had scratched vivid into his usual morning gleanings. And as he stepped forward, walking among the stars—mere needle-pins of light, distances away—Cedric marveled as tiny globules of golden light, like fireflies, began to float lazy along his path.

They bobbed up and down, avoiding him. Moving as if pulled by an invisible current within the dark expanse. Cedric pivoted around, watching them pass through, before a soft and familiar voice chimed at the back of his head, a small caress;

"_What did you see?" _

Whipping forward, Cedric watched as the beads of light converged into a single mass, shaped very much like a person that stood a few feet in front of him. Undisturbed, the current kept going, but every now and then a light would stray and join the cluster; the figure's form fluctuating then, but still keeping a relatively person-sized shape.

"_Did you feel anything?" _the voice spoke again. Lilting, a different question. Cedric, so overcome by surprise, said nothing. He wasn't gripped by fear or other feelings of dread, but he could not find it in himself to answer either; it was almost like he knew exactly what the being asked for, and yet, he was still unable to fathom a satisfactory reply.

"_Was it painful?"_ it asked.

_No,_ Cedric tried to say. But when he opened his mouth a stream of bubbles burst out and he felt his feet lift off, weightless into the air. His eyes widened when he realized that his lungs were filling with water and that all around him thickened; the invisible floor, that was so steady before, giving way as slowly he sank downward.

_Did it hurt?_

Cedric began to kick, his body jerking into a series of panicked, defense mechanisms. Eyes straining, more and more of the lights that had streamed past poured into the form, it's mass growing larger and larger until it could pick up Cedric's whole body with two fingers.

"Did it hurt?" it asked again, voice no longer inside Cedric's head but clear and cutting through this ocean of black that he was drowning in. A colossal head of light loomed over him, faceless, and yet all Cedric could feel was his very core being scrutinized. It hovered closer and closer, the golden glow engulfing him, burning into his eyes until suddenly—_Snap!_

Cedric's eyes opened again and he looked up at an open sky, just near sunrise, the shroud of trees bordering around his peripheral vision. His clothes were well-seeped into and he felt like he was soaked to his bones, his shirt sticking to his waist and the skin chafed underneath the folds of his pants.

There was a muddle in his head and a bubble of water stuck at the back of his throat, but he couldn't seem to cough it out; his lips wouldn't open.

Odd. And as he tried to will himself to get up, a second realization began to creep in—

He wasn't breathing.

He could _feel _a patch of moss, damp, cradling the base of his skull; he could feel long tufts of grass tickling his ankles. But there was not a single thing he could do about it, unable to crane his head, or even lift himself upright.

There was earth beneath his skin, there was air that brushed over him, but not one finger let alone an arm or his own chest would move, rise or fall. His body just lay still, cold on the ground, while his eyes darted around—panicked.

Was he paralyzed?

Trapped? The discomfort of being wet settled in. The feeling of soil in between his toes, of leaves stuck under his wrist unsettled him.

Would he suffocate to death? Would he be stuck like this forever? And again, at the back of his head;

_Did it hurt?_ the voice asked, **incessantly,** _Was it painful?_

Cedric suddenly felt something snake around his torso, coarse and thick. It wrapped around his legs then the top of his head before he realized; it was vine. A bush swallowed his right arm while his upper thigh disintegrated into a patch of wildflowers. More and more of the landscape began to claim him, tree roots, shrubbery, he felt himself being eaten by dirt and rock and vine,

_Are you alive?_ the voice asked, an echo.

Cedric wanted to scream.

**Are you alive?** The voice grew distorted in each second, he felt himself burning inside, his body being swallowed, decaying as the wildlife took over his body. He looked at the sky with blurry eyes,

**I ' N. **

_Snap!_

Cedric leapt up with his eyes open.

For real this time.

The cooling cloth that had been placed on his forehead was thrown to the other side of the room, while his blanket sprawled across the floor. His deep breaths shuddered in and out of his body before he shivered, reaching over with all his strength to grab and huddle inside his duvet.

A few feet away from him Mrs Weasley sat in her armchair, fast asleep, her mouth open and hands clutching a pair of needles, mid-knit. Cedric's figure and the window's bars cast shadows against the moonlit floor, and a grandfather clock ticked in the background.

His heart pounded. His throat itched for water.

He could feel the sweat on his back and nausea, spike from temple to temple inside his head. Rubbing his face vigorously, the figure's question repeated, a feeble loop that ran just below his conscious.

On his arms and legs ghosted the feeling of fighting water and around his chest, the thrush of a bush, the press of thorny vines. Pulling the covers tighter, Cedric noticed how cold his skin had become.

It seemed his fever had passed.

Slowly he felt something inside himself break and he began to sob into his hands; muffled, so as to not disturb Mrs Weasley in her slumber.

* * *

The days that followed after the dream were uneventful; almost like it didn't happen at all.

Miraculously Cedric's fever had subsided in just two days—though Mrs Weasley confined him to his bed for a third, just to be sure—and when he joined the others, barely a conversation was exchanged about the Incident besides initial '_You alright?'s_ and '_Welcome back!'s_.

There wasn't even one sly joke or jab uttered from the twins, though Cedric wouldn't have minded either way.

At times he could feel Harry watching, waiting, and Cedric knew that he'd have to say something soon. But with the start of the school term looming closer and closer, Mrs Weasley's ongoing campaign to sort and bag Grimmauld Place occupying most of their waking hours and; Cedric's eagerness to forget about the whole thing entirely… he assumed that maybe it was better to gloss over the Number One thing on everyone's mind. His own especially.

It was much easier to spring to action and dust and mop, stack and spray and wipe and polish and place when trying to distract yourself; besides he was being productive.

That was good.

But at the same time, he always was first to follow the others' lead. First to trail behind Harry if he was going downstairs and then Fred and George when they went to bed. He even let Ginny rope him into grooming the owls one afternoon, and _willingly _listened to Ron talk for hours on end about how the Chudley Cannons could still win the league.

In the end, Cedric would follow behind anyone, simply if it meant that he wouldn't be alone.

His nightmares, that fever-dream; they stayed this time. Manifesting into a strange sense of nervousness that even he knew was uncalled for. It was tense, walking around the house. A small fear poked at his side, whispering and cautioning that behind every corner could be Peter Pettigrew, waiting to ambush him, so whenever he'd stand, waiting for the kettle; whenever he'd look in the mirror or, walk down a hallway without looking back… All these intrusive thoughts, the 'memories' and unpleasant feelings would churn inside; seize his mind to the point where he absolutely had to look behind his shoulder, just in case.

It only ever went away when he was busy or with other people. By himself it was just too difficult to handle; too difficult to harbour a conscience that was ever so vigilant, even when he knew that he was never in danger in the first place.

Things became even more sour when they all got their letters from Hogwarts, the boys all clustered in Harry and Ron's room, groaning and mumbling, "_Drat! Potions again with Snape again!"_ and "_...Did you really expect anything different?",_ to their heart's content.

"What's up with you, Ron?" Fred asked, looking up. He had just finished a rather colorful round of complaints about the amount of textbooks on his list, when he realized no one had listened. Meanwhile Ron, not answering, stood very still with his mouth slightly open, gaping at his letter from Hogwarts.

"What's the matter?" repeated Fred impatiently, moving around Ron to look over his shoulder at the parchment. Fred's mouth fell open too.

"Prefect?" he said, staring incredulously at the letter.

"Prefect?" George leapt forward, seized the envelope in Ron's other hand, and turned it upside down. Harry saw something scarlet and gold fall into George's palm.

"No way," said George in a hushed voice.

"There's been a mistake," said Fred, snatching the letter out of Ron's grasp and holding it up to the light as though checking for a watermark.

"No one in their right mind would make Ron a prefect…" The twins' heads turned in unison and both of them stared at Harry.

"We thought _you _were a cert!" said Fred in a tone that suggested Harry had tricked them in some way.

"We thought Dumbledore was bound to pick _you!"_ said George indignantly. They both looked at him like he had committed a heinous crime, to which Harry simply shrugged.

He didn't admit his pang of jealousy, which only intensified when Hermione burst in, a Prefect badge in her hand as well. The twins took one look at her and Ron before they began groaned.

"Oh, Mum is going to be _disgusting!"_ said Fred, fake-gagging to the corner.

"Harry, did you get one too?!" asked Hermione excitedly, after she had hugged Ron in astonishment.

"Er, no, but congratulations you two—"

"—What's wrong with you, Cedric," asked George, "You didn't get Head Boy?"

Up until this point Cedric had been quietly reading his own letter with a rather blank and mildly confused expression.

"Eh? Oh, no, no… I didn't.. er—" Cedric said, distracted. He eyed his letter up and down with a furrowed brow.

"Is Perfect Prefect Cedric not perfect anymore?" Ron whispered to Ginny, who had come in as well. Hermione promptly smacked him in the back of his head, "Ow!"

Before they could spend another couple of minutes watching Cedric flip through his letters, Fred sauntered behind him and snatched a page out of his hands.

"From the desk of Pomona Sprout, Head of Herbology and House Hufflepuff at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—" he announced.

"Hey!" Cedric said chasing after him, but Fred had begun to apparate, blinking in and out at random spots of the room while he read the letter in a loud, pompous voice.

"Dear Mr Diggory, while I look forward to another fruitful and academic year of Herbology with you, I do hope that your holidays have proved to be full of rest and leisure—" Fred dodged as Cedric made a swipe for him, dancing away— "Merlin knows you deserve it. I only wish I had the power to give you a week longer if I could—You're close with Professor Sprout, Ceddy?"

"Er—"

Fred didn't wait for him to finish before he continued, "I am sorry to inform you this but unfortunately, some members of our staff concerned with current events have considered your presence, alongside Mr Potter, a point of contention."

Immediately, Cedric froze in the middle of reaching out for the letter, while Fred squinted at the page as if he read it wrong.

"The headmaster has made sure that neither of you are to be expelled but at the moment your position as Prefect and House Captain have been revoked until further notice and—oh, _dragon dung_—Professor McGonagall and I, amongst others, are negotiating on your behalf but our newest staff member is rather stubborn about this… I am so sorry Cedric, please do not let this ruin the rest of your days off. I'm sure all will be resolved before September 1st..." Fred eventually trailed away and turned, like everyone else in the room, to look at Cedric with wide eyes.

Cedric himself could only sigh; his face aflame, "I _told _you not to read it."

"I'm sorry mate, really, that was my bad—" Fred started but Cedric shook his head and waved his hands.

"You all would've found out eventually," he said, taking the letter back. The bedroom, which was full of excitement and loud chatter before had stapled into a general atmosphere of speechlessness. From the open door, they could hear someone clatter in the kitchen downstairs while Hedwig and Pigwidgeon crooned from the top of Ron's headboard.

"Well seems you're right; I'm not perfect anymore," said Cedric, trying to break the ice. He nodded at Ron and Ginny, meaning it as a jest, but could see that they were regretting the joke.

"Oh, don't! You don't have to feel bad on my behalf,"

"But you didn't do _anything!" _burst out Hermione, almost spitting into the floor. "You haven't broken any rules!"

"It might be the stuff with the Prophet," Ginny said, "That new staff member or whatever, maybe they're the Ministry's damage control-slash-spy or something,"

"That's barmy!" Ron scoffed.

"Wouldn't it be crazy if it was Percy?" George said to which Ginny made a disgruntled noise. As the others began to speculate behind Hogwarts decision—Ginny, especially provoked by George's Percy theory—Cedric felt Harry staring at him.

"You alright?" he asked. Cedric did not meet his gaze. He hesitated, staring into the letter a second too long before he gave a thin smile.

"It doesn't matter," he replied, shaking his head again. He put a hand on Harry's shoulder, "I'm okay."

Carefully, Cedric put the letter inside it's envelope.

"Mrs Weasley'll get grumpy if we stay here too long," he said aloud, "Let's go down."

And as he and everyone else left, Harry watched them walk through the door, feeling irritated.

Cedric had not looked him in the eye, not even once.

"How can you be a Boy Who Lied when you can't even lie?" Harry muttered, quietly.

* * *

That afternoon, while Cedric had begun to pack his clothes into his suitcase, he heard a knock on his door.

"Its unlocked," he called, standing up. Swinging open, Sirius stood in the doorway, sweating; his pinstripe suit-jacket tied around his waist.

"I've just come back from shopping!" he announced, out of breath and barging into the room. In his arms he held a brown paper bag that seemed to hold a numerous amount of things, all rattling together as he set it down on George's bed.

"I-I thought you weren't allowed outside," Cedric said, though he really wanted to ask why Sirius was in his room.

"Oh let me _rephrase—_" Sirius said, pausing momentarily as he sorted through the bags contents—"I've just come back from being Snuffles while Remus, kindly, bought items from the stalls I dragged him to."

"Oh I see—"

"—He means he's come back from date which I paid entirely for," said Lupin blankly as he passed by the open doorway, heading upstairs.

"A dog can't have a purse on him!" yelled Sirius, and Cedric heard someone snort from the hallway.

"Anyway, look! I got something for you," Sirius continued, unperturbed, and offered forward a thick, violet book. In Cedrics hands, he immediately noticed how worn it's cover was, the gold-lined spine and title flaking ever so slightly into his fingers as he traced over it.

"A Gentleman's Encyclopedic Guide to Protective Spells," Cedric read. He flipped through to see rather magnificent illustrations of fantastic beasts inked onto it's weathered pages, hand-drawn and enchanted to move slowly as though to bite at him. Written around the illustrations were dense and often tall paragraphs of tiny scrawlings, detailing both magic and alchemical knowledge. It seemed to be full of non-offensive spells that were meant to, in more powerful cases, completely banish creatures and people or at least distract them for a while, so that the reader could get away.

"_Revertere cito, Videre alium… _this is incredible Sirius!" Cedric exclaimed.

"Oh good! Moony didn't waste those galleons today then!" Sirius said clapping his hands together. Cedric gave him a bit of an astonished laugh.

"Er, I don't think this is on my Defence Against the Dark Arts readings at all though,"

"Don't fret now. Perhaps you could think of it as further reading? I didn't really get it for school."

Still slightly bewildered, Cedric looked up to see Sirius observing him, a very careful look in his eyes.

"I.. I appreciate it but, then why are you giving it to _me?"_ he asked nervously.

"A farewell present," Sirius said, "And also… an apology; for what it's worth, I truly _am sorry,"_

Cedric didn't think he heard right, "Pardon?"

"Your encounter with the boggart was a mistake on my part. Firstly, I shouldn't have let you go at it alone and well…" Sirius sucked in a breath. "I suppose he would be ashamed, you see, the Peter I knew."

Cedric's spine snapped straight.

"You know Peter Pettigrew?!" he exclaimed. Alarmed, Sirius stepped forward and pressed a finger to his lips.

"Knew," he stressed, "I _knew _Peter. I do not, however, know the person that he is now nor the person that he became that night."

"Right! Right," Cedric said, dropping to a whisper.

"I am sorry." Sirius said solemnly. Cedric couldn't help but laugh in response.

"You sound like Harry," he said before he was suddenly struck with the thought, "Did he tell you to come up here and check on me?"

"He didn't. I wanted to come here myself to apologise on an old friend's behalf," he said, slipping his jacket on.

"No harm—... Well I guess I can't really say that, eh?" said Cedric, with a weak smile. He felt Sirius pause, watching him carefully again.

"You know... My boggart is Peter Pettigrew as well," he said, voice lowering just above a whisper, "Albeit when he manifests, he typically has a couple more of bodies around him."

Cedric's face dropped and he stood very, very still; not because he willed himself to particularly, but more so because he was, quite simply dumbstruck and unable to figure out how to respond in an either coherent or polite way. Sirius, still staring, still observing, bent down a little and made sure to catch Cedric's eye.

"May I tell you a secret?" he asked. Cedric nodded.

"Rarely does the boggart ever display itself as a person. You were probably taught that the creature takes the form of our worst fear, correct?" said Sirius. Cedric nodded again. "Technically, that's wrong. The boggart _can _take the form of our worst fears; creatures or things that we are scared of on reflex. And for the unlucky; things, creatures, people that remind or represent some horrendous memories."

Cedric winced and gripped his arm uneasily.

"But, what the boggart most favours is taking the shape of our worst, irrational fears. Ones that we sometimes tell ourselves cannot hurt us, and because of this very reasoning, these are the fears that we cannot fathom of ever confronting or overcoming."

"The Riddikulus spell itself is a spell based on distraction. It doesn't make the fear go away and it doesn't solve it. It just distracts both wizard and the boggart long enough to butter you up by making a fool of it; a lovely sentiment I'm sure, but not a practical one," Sirius turned around.

"Did you manage to see Harry defeat the boggart?" he asked. Cedric immediately went pink.

"I—No, not really." he said with a dry mouth, "I passed out."

Sirius nodded sympathetically, "Well, do you know what his boggart is?"

Cedric shook his head.

"It's a Dementor."

"A _dementor?"_ repeated Cedric, incredulously.

"Yes," Sirius folded his arms, "As Remus put it, Harry is afraid of fear itself. Irrational right? Except, it's not. It's manifested into a rather rational being."

Cedric blinked for a moment, still not quite able to grasp it, "What are you… What are you trying to say then?" he asked.

"Harry cannot defeat the boggart in the way everyone else can, he cannot use Riddikulus. But instead, he uses the force of his own power and casts the Patronus charm!" Sirius gave a vaguely amused smile. ''Funny isn't it, he can't use the third-year spell but instead uses the one that most wizards struggle with as adults."

"That's—"

"Incredible?"

Cedric nodded fervently, "Yeah!"

Sirius smiled faintly before his expression turned firm.

"What I am trying to say is that he, you and I… we are slightly different from everyone else. Slightly. Our deepest fears manifest as creatures and people that we cannot simply distract ourselves away from. You may fear something that Peter represents or maybe you even fear Peter himself, either way; Riddikulus doesn't work for you anymore so you must find a spell that can replace it," Sirius pointed at the book that Cedric clutched in his hand.

"But, I don't—I'm not like you both, I think, I—"

"This will not best you," Sirius interrupted, placing his hands on Cedric's shoulders. "You are much stronger than you know. You do not need to be like me or Harry, to be what you simply are."

Startled, Cedric slowly nodded with wide eyes. He felt some of the tension that built inside his body melt away, just a tiny bit. And as he relaxed, for a second, something flickered in his expression. A little more color and light returned to his eyes. Sirius couldn't help but smile as he watched.

"You look much better than when I first came in," he said patting Cedric's shoulders, "I shall leave you to your packing."

He grabbed the paper bag and turned to leave the room, trinkets and things still clunking together as the bag shook in each footstep.

"Sirius," Cedric called, just before he could walk out the door, "What do you cast at your boggart?"

There was a slow turn before Sirius met his gaze; he smiled but his eyes were hard. The two didn't quite meet. Without a word he put a finger to his lips again, and then he walked away.

* * *

It wasn't long before the day came—partially dreaded, partially excited for—the first of September arrived as a crisp morning, knots of cloud gliding in a clear sky while London, busy as ever; began to wake up, winding like a clock or toy that would sing, the roads filled with cars and people streaming busy in it's streets.

Harry stood at the bottom of Grimmauld's stairs, Hedwig's cage and his suitcase bundled beside him, while the racket of the twins and Ginny's last minute packing—alongside Mrs Weasley's frantic shouts—raged above. While he waited, his stomach pumped with something like nervousness but also a certain electricity; Harry jumped when he heard the wood creak at the top of the steps where Cedric appeared, caught off-guard by his presence.

It had been a while since they talked, Cedric brushing him off at every attempt Harry made to get him to open up. But this time before Harry could even say hello, Cedric was the first to open his mouth.

"I lied to you last time!" he blurted out.

"What?" said Harry, moving up a step. CRACK!

Cedric apparated right next to him, suitcase and all.

"I said that I was okay about the entire Prefect and House Captain thing… but it turns out, I'm really _not _okay with it."

"R-Right, well—"

"Also I lied about the things I wrote about over the holidays," Cedric admitted, but Harry could only shake his head, blanking out.

"I _did _go to the sea and all those places but—" Cedric gestured wildly, "Every morning I had nightmares and I just-.. I couldn't _enjoy _it. I stayed indoors as much as I could and only went out when my parents asked me to—"

"Cedric! It's fine! You don't need to—look I do appreciate your honesty but it's _fine_, there's nothing wrong with—"

"Also, I've been having nightmares again,"

"_What?"_

"Nightmares,"

"You're telling me now?!" Harry said, exasperated.

"Sorry," Cedric said sincerely. He grabbed at the sides of his hair. "I thought I was fine but—! I don't—... I don't think I _am _anymore."

It was strange how such energy and flurry could fall away with a single sentence. The conversation slowed and Cedric cast his gaze to the floor. Harry could see how his jaw set in that tense, harsh line and how his face creased when he stuttered. Without thinking too much about it, he closed the gap between them and grasped Cedric's hand, holding tightly while stepping into his line of view.

"I'm sorry," he said. And it was frustrating, it was cruel, but he couldn't _say _anything else.

"What are you apologizing for? It's not your fault, you saved me, I'm just—" Cedric let go of very deep sigh— "I'm dealing with the aftermath."

"...I'm still sorry."

Moments passed between them as the Weasley's thundered upstairs. A sudden thought came to Cedric, "You know Sirius came to see me the other day,"

"Yeah?"

"He gave me a book, told me that… I'm _stronger _than I would ever know,"

"He's right," Harry said immediately, and Cedric smiled at him; a pleasant smile. A real one.

Realer than all the ones he had been showing until now.

"Well I guess I'm not the only person that died and lived again," he chuckled.

"Yeah. Unfortunately we're pretty similar, you and I," Harry said, but Cedric shook his head.

"It's not unfortunate," he said, squeezing Harry's hand, "Not at all."

Harry smiled and the conversation drifted off, quiet again.

"Will it always feel like this?" asked Cedric asked suddenly, "Like you don't have any control?"

Harry bit the inside of his cheek. Both of their gazes shifted from focusing on their hands and the floor, to each other's face; their first, real, proper look at other since the Incident occurred. Harry, for one, could not bear with what he saw.

In front of him, there were slight bags and evidence that every so often Cedric would skip dinner, but most importantly of all, there was this dulled steel in his eyes—something that Harry found more obvious and striking in the cold morning light.

"Yeah… Yeah, you'll always feel a little helpless," Harry said sadly. And he couldn't sugarcoat it, he couldn't try to play both sides.

It was what it was for him and while he knew that, he hated that there was another person with the same eyes, hated that someone else was going through every single second of it.

"Does it get any better?" asked Cedric, still holding out for hope in the bend of his brow.

Harry could taste blood as he clenched deeper into his gum.

"I haven't found out yet," he said quietly, "So, I'd have to say 'no', so far."

He gave a little bit of a laugh afterwards, meaning to lighten the mood, but instead it came out bitter and hollow. It made Cedric's chest constrict and then ache, for naught but Harry's own sake.

_Idiot_, he called himself. Why was he so worried about worrying other people? Why did he decide to have this conversation _now_, rather than a week ago?

This was _hard _and Cedric wasn't making it any easier for the both of them. Already he was bursting at the seams, muddled and stumbling along these emotions, pulled by conjectures but triggered into reality—there were parts of him that broke and splintered into disrepair. There were parts of him that he desperately tried to hold onto, despite his arms being cut, despite the pieces falling to shatter onto the floor. He couldn't imagine doing it alone, so why was he?

He couldn't imagine braving and wearing against the world—

how many years did Harry's soul age?

During the time between his eleventh and his fourteenth summer, how many eyes misconstrued him? How many lips broke him apart into a two-bit story?

_You were supposed to help him._

_We were supposed to help each other._

But it seemed so hard to take someone else's hand now, it seemed so _hard _to cling and grab when all of this could sift like sand through his fingers.

_Pathetic, _Cedric could tell himself this all day. He was pathetic.

And yet, here was Harry, looking at him like he wasn't. Here was Harry taking his hand and Cedric unable to help holding on, the both of them feeling all the knuckles and the grooves made by Quidditch brooms and wand-handles; trying to fashion some kind of haven inside the other's heart, trying to forge some kind of bond on sea-brittle rock.

Cedric could feel a nail bitten to a finger stub, he could feel a warmth so awkward that it was sweating.

It was the same. _They _were the same.

He never needed to be embarrassed. They're both just teenagers dressing up like adults together.

"I'm sorry," Harry said again, nervous at Cedric's silence.

No, _I'm _sorry.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _**I'm **__sorry._

"It goes away when I'm with you," Cedric admitted quickly, desperate.

"What goes away?" asked Harry.

"This—" Cedric gestured to his entirety, "The dreams, the stress. I can—.. I can breathe when I'm with you."

So please don't look like that Harry.

_Don't hurt for me._

Cedric watched as Harry lips formed a little "o", and he flushed. Unexpected.

"Ah," he faltered, the sudden feeling of weight from Cedric's hand on his own causing an intense inability to know where exactly to look.

"That—that was cheesy," Cedric mumbled, red as well.

"Yeah," Harry laughed, but it was fuller, brighter, this time.

"I feel the same," he said, "I _like _being with you."

Cedric broke into a wide grin. The tension, the fatigue left his face.

"I suppose we'll have to find a way to make it easier," said Harry.

"Together?" Cedric asked.

"Together."

Cedric gave him another smile before he grasped Harry's hand in between both of his own, "You know, usually the prefects patrol the train on the way to school, but since I'm free this year… Do you mind listening to me ramble on for a bit?"

"Anytime, look—" Harry opened a paper bag that sat on his suitcase— "Lupin made me pancakes."

Cedric beamed.

"Oh look you lot! Harry and Cedric are already downstairs!" Mrs Weasley yelled from above. Harry and Cedric held hands for a second longer before they finally let go, Mrs Weasley shuffling past them and squinting her way down the steps like she had little sleep.

"Don't compare us to the champions!" moaned Ginny, lugging her luggage behind her. From the top Harry saw Fred and George's heads nodding from the banister. Before long everyone had gathered in the hallway, suitcases packed, pets in cages; and shining with a restless energy. Sirius was struggling to let Harry go from a hug while Mr Weasley and Lupin made sure that everyone hadn't forgotten any textbooks or cauldrons underneath their beds.

"Come back for the holidays, alright?" Sirius said, as he crushed Harry with his arms.

"I will, I will!" Harry replied, laughing.

"Ready to go, Cedric?" Mrs Weasley asked after she had put on her knitted beret. Cedric picked up his suitcase and stuffed his new book underneath his left arm.

"We shouldn't be late," he said, gaze meeting with Harry.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, an eager grin. "I've really missed Hogwarts."


	23. A Particularly Long Train Ride (I)

arry never imagined that he'd ever travel London _needing _the protection of something other than his own wand and yet, here he was—standing outside of Grimmauld, waiting for a '_Sturgis Podmore'_ to arrive otherwise his guard to Kings Cross would be one person short.

"A _guard?"_ he looked at Hermione, bewildered, "We have to go to King's Cross with a guard?"

"You and _Cedric_, have to go to King's Cross with a guard," Hermione corrected him.

"Why?" said Harry irritably. "I thought Voldemort was supposed to be lying low, or are you telling me he's going to jump out from behind a dustbin to try and do us in?"

"If you think you're embarrassed, think about how _I _feel," said Cedric. He had burrowed his nose in the neck of his sweater, and Harry thought his expression mildly resembled that of a disgruntled turtle.

Hermione leaned against the fence, "We can't really go against it, it's for both of your well-beings,"

"Yeah well… if we keep waiting around like this, we'll be late!" Ron muttered under his breath. Harry, too, couldn't help the surge of impatience inside him. Time was ticking and the train was not likely to wait as long as they have been, thus far.

Suddenly someone called to them, "Plan's changed!"

"Oh, finally!" murmured Mrs Weasley, as she released an audible breath. The rest whipped around to see an old woman waving them on the corner of the street.

She had tightly curled gray hair and wore a purple hat shaped like a porkpie.

"Wotcher, Harry," Tonks said, winking. "Better hurry up, hadn't we, Molly?" she added, checking her watch.

"I know, I know," moaned Mrs. Weasley, "But Mad-Eye wanted to wait for _Sturgis_… If only Arthur could have got us cars from the Ministry again… but Fudge wouldn't let him borrow so much as an empty ink bottle these days… How Muggles can _stand _traveling without magic!"

"Well, let's get on with it then!" Tonks laughed. She turned to Cedric, Ginny and the twins, "You lot stay here—we'll take these three first and you'll follow with Remus after a bit—"

"Is that really necessary—?" Fred asked, just as Mrs Weasley planted a kiss on his forehead— "_Mum!"_

Mrs Weasley kissed George and Ginny too, while Tonk's wrinkly face morphed into her own, winking at Fred before it turned back to an old woman's;

"Can't go against Madeye, he's got the better sense for these things, y'know. Besides, we'll see each other soon enough!" she said, already walking ahead. Yanked along by Ron's arms, Harry and Hermione rushed forward, hurriedly following after her.

"What happened to Sturgis?" asked Mrs Weasley, as she tried to catch up.

"Dunno. I bet he's just late though,"

"It's still a bit worrying that we don't have another guard—"

They had hardly turned the corner before hearing a "_Hey!"_ ring out from behind, and suddenly a big, black dog appeared at their sides, trotting forward with its tongue lolling out.

"Snuffles?" asked Harry, from the corner of his mouth.

The dog barked happily, and nuzzled into his side.

Giggling from the front, Tonks turn to Mrs Weasley, "A dog would be fine spare, right Molly?"

"Oh honestly…" she said despairingly, "well, let it be on own head then!"

And so they made their way with Sirius, spending twenty minutes on foot before finally, they caught sight of King's Cross tucked behind long rows of buildings, peeking above the sprawled courtyard and commuters rushing to catch buses and make the clock.

Despite their previous rush, Harry stopped, almost as if the realization that he would once again catch the Hogwarts Express just registered inside his head. In all his years at Hogwarts, he could not recall a time where his heart _didn't _leap at the sound of trains rumbling, _clickety clack,_ across the rail-line, and they walked closer and closer to the station, making out the clock steeple towering in the sky, the slopes of wide arches and the streams of people whose heads bobbed up and down against the station's worn brickways; he could feel his heart racing in every individual beat. By now, each of them had made the trip often enough that they could slip through the cracks of the crowds heading in opposite directions, while also spotting others that would make the same journey as well; their trolleys filled with assorted suitcases, skewered boxes and cages or terrariums that held animals—of which, at a closer look would seem slightly out of place, if only any Muggle thought to stop and consider.

But it was rare that a Muggle would—and if they did, they probably weren't a Muggle—as they kept their heads down, focused on whatever itinerary they had planned for the day and quick, in emptying the platform enough that for a brief moment; Tonks could lead the group straight through brick column, fearless in the path, and stepping right onto platform nine and three-quarters.

Out of habit, Harry inhaled the familiar smell and felt his spirits soar… he was really going back… He knew that it was still Kings Station but it felt like an entirely different world; one where the day-to-day suit-wearing Muggles were replaced by wizards who swept the floor with long flowing robes; shaded deep yet vibrant, conjuring minor illusions with the tips of their fingers as they spoke; carrying things like broomsticks, books or wands holstered and strapped to their hips.

Harry could see jeans held up by belts, hoodies and coats huddling beside pillars, but somehow, it felt something different on this other side; especially when everyone had hooked mini-cauldrons on their forearms or sucked on candies that made their eyes flash different colours.

No matter how many times he would enter the wizarding world, Harry could never get used to that first hit of such ordinary wonders.

He also couldn't help but notice that his stares were being returned back; wherever his eyes trailed, more eyes followed.

It seemed that this world was more aware of him than usual.

While Harry avoided the glances thrown his away, Mrs Weasley tapped her foot against the pavement, glancing at her watch.

"I hope the others make it in time," she said anxiously, staring behind her at the wrought-iron arch spanning the platform, through which new arrivals would come.

"I'm sure they're fine, Mrs Weasley," said Hermione.

"Yeah it was only ten minutes," Ron assured as well, but Mrs Weasley's right foot continued to fidget all the same.

"Even with his leg, Alastor wouldn't take this long! It might've been better if we left an hour earlier…"

"Mum—"

"Hey Fred, George! Nice seeing you!" someone called out from behind. They turned to see the twins, Lupin, Ginny, Mr Weasley and Cedric making their way toward them, and walking alongside a smiling but slightly baffled tall boy with dreadlocks.

"What are you doing here, professor?" the boy gasped, "Are you coming back to school!"

"No, no, Mr Jordan. I was simply escorting these four to the station; London can be quite the maze, you see,"

As they came closer, Harry squinted as Lee Jordan's figure dipped in beside the twins, "Are you friends with Diggory now?" he asked, though not so quietly as he had hoped.

"Jealous?" Fred and George retorted, just as loudly. Red, Lee grabbed both their heads and pushed them down. Cedric gave an awkward smile before making a beeline to Harry's side.

"You all came together?" Harry asked, as Cedric passed behind him.

"Foot traffic was bad. We ended up at the same crossing," he replied, "All good on your end?"

"Yeah," Harry said, "a walk can't do much to me, can it?"

"You never know, Potter," grunted a voice from behind. Harry and Cedric jumped as with a porter's cap pulled low over his mismatched eyes, Moody came limping through, pushing a cart full of their trunks, "It pays to stay vigilant."

"R-right, sorry…"

As they took their own suitcases, tending to individual pets and double-checking their belongings, Moody's glass eye spun around while his real one looked at Lupin.

"No trouble?" he growled.

"Nothing," said Lupin. Though, he gave a dissatisfied look down at Sirius, who had meekly padded to his feet upon arrival.

"I'll still be reporting Sturgis to Dumbledore," said Moody. "That's the second time he's not turned up in a week. Getting as unreliable as Mundungus."

"Indeed. There's nothing good about disobeying orders," Lupin said, very pointedly staring at the black dog beside him. Sirius whined and began to nuzzle into his knee. Though Lupin's expression stayed blank, Harry noticed something—certainly fond—creased at the corners of his eyes.  
More and more people streamed around them; the noise of chatter, crying, goodbyes and constant swivel of heads in his direction—all of it filtered into Harry's head in one gigantic stream of sound. It only dulled down when Lupin stepped forward and clapped his hands.

"Well everyone, this is it! Look after yourselves," he said. He walked to each of them, shaking hands and smiling before at last, he reached Harry with a much grimmer face.

"Be safe, yes?" Lupin said. He reached toward him, outstretching his arm, but then pulled away at the last second. Without thinking, Harry sprang forward and wrapped his arms around him—

"Thanks for picking me up, at the Dursleys," he said.

"-'re welcome…" Lupin mumbled and Harry felt him hug back. Sirius's animagus form running tight circles around them, his tail weaving in between their legs.

"Take care of that dumb dog, as well,"

Lupin snorted, "Which one?"

"Erm… both,"

"Ha!" he let Harry go, and with a kind smile and solemn eyes he said, "Tread carefully, Mr Potter,"

Harry nodded and reached down for Sirius, desperate to squeeze as much of him as he could without looking weird. In return Sirius seemed to want to lick his face as much as he could, as well.

"Keep your head down and your eyes peeled," said Moody, still surveying their surroundings from above. "And don't forget, all of you—careful what you put in writing. If in doubt, don't put it in a letter at all."

"It's been great meeting all of you," said Tonks, hugging Hermione and Ginny. "We'll see you soon, I expect."

A warning whistle sounded; the students still on the platform started hurrying onto the train.

"Quick, quick!" said Mrs. Weasley distractedly, hugging them at random and catching Harry twice. "Write—Be good!—If you've forgotten anything we'll send it on… Onto the train, now, hurry…!"

For one brief moment, the great black dog reared onto its hind legs and placed its front paws on Harry's shoulders, but Mrs. Weasley shoved Harry away toward the train door hissing, "For heaven's sake act more like a dog, Sirius!"

"See you!" Harry called out of the open window as the train began to move, while Ron, Hermione, and Ginny waved beside him. The figures of Tonks, Lupin, Moody, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley shrank rapidly but the black dog was bounding alongside the window, wagging its tail; blurred people on the platform were laughing to see it chasing the train, and then they turned the corner, and Sirius was gone.

A flurry of colors passed through the window before Harry could really understand what was happening, a change in the worn reds and cityscape greys fusing into the beginning of viridescence browning upon moorlands; autumn expanding beyond just the palette of falling leaves.

As he watched outside the window, catching his breath for a second, Harry felt something swallow him up inside. Brief and small, but sharp in the way it struck him swiftly.

"I miss them already," he said sadly. Gently, Hermione touched his shoulder and they watched as an expanse of nature rolled by, clouds overcast ahead.

"It's alright mate," Ron said, sincerely.

"You'll see them soon," Cedric added.

"Yeah," Harry gripped onto the handle of his suitcase. "Well… shall we go and find a compartment, then?"

As he turned back to his friends, he watched as Hermione and Ron both exchanged looks.

"Er," said Ron.

"We're—well—Ron and I are supposed to go into the prefect carriage," Hermione said awkwardly. Ron wasn't looking at Harry; he seemed to have become intensely interested in the fingernails on his left hand.

"Oh," said Harry. "Right. Sorry, I forgot."

"I don't think we'll have to stay there _all _journey," said Hermione quickly. She glanced at Cedric as well. "Our letters said we just have an orientation and go get instructions from the Head Boy and Girl."

"We'll see you later then?" Cedric asked.

"Yeah, definitely," said Ron, casting a shifty, anxious look at Harry. "It's a pain having to go down there, I'd rather—but we have to—I mean, I'm not _enjoying _it, I'm not Percy," he finished defiantly.

"It's _okay,_" said Harry and he grinned. But as Hermione and Ron dragged their trunks, Crookshanks, and a caged Pigwidgeon off toward the engine end of the train, Harry felt an odd sense of loss. He had never traveled on the Hogwarts Express without Ron.

"Come on," Ginny said, "if we get a move on we'll be able to save them places."

"I agree," Cedric said, "It'll be fun, yeah?"

But as they walked through the corridor, passing and peering into the glass-paneled doors of compartments; it took far longer than usual to find an empty room. Many of them were already too full for another three passengers, let alone a potential five. And Harry could not help noticing that a lot of people stared back at them with great interest. At these moments, Cedric would also stiffen beside him, as several people nudged their neighbors and pointed him out too.

_What on earth was happening?_ Did they have something on their noses, had Fred and George stuck the wizard equivalent of a piece of paper that said "Kick me!" on his back? Was it—oh _shit._

Harry suddenly remembered that the Daily Prophet had been telling its readers all summer what a lying show-off he was, and that Cedric was of the same ilk.

He didn't make much of it in Kings Cross. The gazes that were given back.

He had _felt _heads turn, and perhaps one or two cold stares not entirely just by the eyes of other students weighing against him; but it wasn't like _this_. People giggled behind their hands, and others hid behind their copies of their Daily Prophet's when they spotted his face in the blur of the compartment window; it was clear that whatever mountainous amount of attention he'd already received has grown and soured over the summer. Harry thought that perhaps it was a good thing, that the train's solid doors barred his ears from what they were saying, if looking only made him wonder bleakly whether the people now staring and whispering believed the stories.

Suddenly, he felt someone push him forward, and he walked past the carriage that had just burst into loud laughter while staring at him.

"Don't think about it," said a voice, just above his ear. He turned to see Cedric frowning down at him.

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked, because _his _irritation was certainly spiking up.

"'Course it bothers me, but there's nothing productive about going in there and asking what their problem is, right?"

Harry sighed, "_Right."_

"Then let's just keep moving," Cedric said, pressing against Harry's shoulders. They made their way toward Ginny, who was already far down the corridor. As a few more snickers and some gasps followed them down the hallway, Harry felt his ears grow red, but Cedric rushed him, quite rapidly, along.

As they made their way through the train, in the very last carriage they met Neville Longbottom, Harry's fellow fifth-year Gryffindor, his round face shining with the effort of pulling his trunk along and maintaining a one-handed grip on his struggling toad, Trevor.

"Hi, Harry," he panted. "Hi, Ginny… Everywhere's full… I can't find a seat _anywhere… "_

"What are you talking about?" said Ginny, who had squeezed past Neville to peer into the compartment behind him. "There's room in this one, there's only Loony Lovegood in here—"

Neville mumbled something about not wanting to disturb anyone.

"Don't be silly," said Ginny, laughing, "She's all right—" and she slid the door open and pulled her trunk inside it and they followed her inside.

"Hi, Luna," said Ginny. "Is it okay if we take these seats?"

The girl beside the window looked up. She had straggly, waist-length, dirty blonde hair, very pale eyebrows, and protuberant eyes that gave her a permanently surprised look. Harry knew at once why Neville had chosen to pass this compartment by. The girl gave off an aura of distinct dottiness. Perhaps it was the fact that she had stuck her wand behind her left ear for safekeeping, or that she had chosen to wear a necklace of butterbeer caps, or that she was reading a magazine upside down.

As they entered, she eyed them carefully, her necklace jingling before she finally nodded.

"Thanks," said Ginny, smiling at her.

Promptly, and without much hesitation after having walked endlessly through the train, they stored their trunks and cages in the luggage rack and settled into their seats. The girl called Luna watched them over her upside-down magazine, which was called The Quibbler. She did not seem to need to blink as much as normal humans. She stared and stared at Harry, who had taken the seat opposite her and now wished he had not.

A certain silence settled in the carriage. It carried the same air of awkwardness that clouded social situations where people are left behind with friends-of-friends, who are more like strangers that they would often smile at. The fact that Luna was still staring Harry, made it considerably worse. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wanting nothing more than to be either out of this room or be where Ron and Hermione were. Ginny gave a polite cough and turned to Luna.

"How you are you? Did you have a good summer?" she asked, attempting to break the ice.

"Yes," said Luna dreamily, without taking her eyes off Harry. "Yes, it was quite enjoyable, you know."

Ginny seemed to wait for her to go on before suddenly, she folded her magazine onto her lap and leaned forward—

"_You're _Harry Potter," she said, eyes brimming in the light of the window.

"I know I am," said Harry. He could almost hear Hermione scold "_Manners!"_ at the back of his head, but Luna didn't seem to acknowledge his curtness. She simply turned away and nodded at Cedric.

"And you're much more handsome than what people say," she said, in that same airy voice.

Unexpectedly, Cedric burst into laughter, Ginny and Neville fighting down wide smiles too. Luna seemed pleased as Cedric extended his other hand forward,

"I'm—"

"Oh, I know you, Cedric Diggory," she said, barely grasping his hand, "I just thought the room felt a bit thick without introductions,"

Neville chuckled. Luna turned her pale eyes upon him instead, "Oh, but I don't know who _you _are."

"I'm nobody," said Neville hurriedly.

"No you're not," said Ginny sharply. "Neville Longbottom — Luna Lovegood. Luna's in my year, but in Ravenclaw."

"Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure," said Luna in a singsong voice. She raised her upside-down magazine high enough to hide her face and fell silent. Harry and Neville looked at each other with their eyebrows raised while Ginny suppressed a giggle.

The train rattled onward, speeding them out into open country. It was an odd, unsettled sort of day; one moment the carriage was full of sunlight and the next they passed beneath ominously, gray clouds.

Harry, wedged between Neville and Cedric, settled into his seat; passing bits of pancakes along, and piping up in the carriages on-and-off bout of conversation. They talked about things like their summer (Harry, Ginny and Cedric scrambling to cover up being cooped up in a twisted fun-house for weeks) and avoided topics about recent news, the Triwizard Tournament or any of what happened last year. Harry appreciated that Neville treated him and Cedric like normal, and that sometimes Luna would lower her magazine and join in, detracting the conversation; mellow and easy to make Neville and Ginny laugh. Other times it was just quiet—Luna back to her reading, Ginny and Neville looking out their windows, and then Harry well-sunk into his seat, listening as Cedric hummed while reading a book.

"You're studying?" he asked in mild bewilderment, "Before we even get to _school?"_

"It's not for school, Si-.. Snuffles gave it to me," Cedric explained, showing him the cover.

"_A Gentleman's Encyclopedic Guide to-_... Snuffles gave you that?"

"I was surprised too," he laughed and flipped the page to show Harry an illustration of a wizard conjuring a shield against a troll, "I think it's pretty cool… Don't you agree, Neville?"

Harry looked back to see that Neville had turned back from the window, staring in wonder at Cedric's book,

"That's _wicked," _he breathed.

"Oh! You had your birthday in June, right?" Ginny perked up, turning away from the window as well, "I didn't get you a present at all! Shall I get you something like that?"

"No, no! It's alright," Neville shook his head, and eyed Cedric shyly, "but that… that looks like a great book, er—"

"Did your grandmother get you something? Another Remembrall?" said Harry, remembering the marblelike device Neville's grandmother had sent him in an effort to improve his abysmal memory.

"No," said Neville, "I could do with one, though, I lost the old one ages ago… But I did get… um— "

He cast another set of furtive glances at Cedric, almost like he wasn't sure about something.

"It's alright," Ginny said, "He doesn't bite!"

"I promise," Cedric grinned.

Sheepish, Neville dug the hand that was not keeping a firm grip on Trevor into his schoolbag and after a little bit of rummaging pulled out what appeared to be a small gray cactus in a pot, except that it was covered with what looked like boils rather than spines.

"Mimbulus mimbletonia," he said proudly, hesitance replaced by excitement. Harry stared at the thing. It was pulsating slightly, giving it the rather sinister look of some diseased internal organ.

"It's really, really rare," said Neville, beaming. "I don't know if there's one in the greenhouse at Hogwarts, even. I can't wait to show it to Professor Sprout. My great-uncle Algie got it for me in Assyria. I'm going to see if I can breed from it."

Harry knew that Neville's favorite subject was Herbology, but for the life of him he could not see what he would want with this stunted little plant.

"Does it—er—_do _anything?" he asked.

"Loads of stuff!" said Neville proudly. "It's got an amazing defensive mechanism—hold Trevor for me…"

He dumped the toad into Harry's lap and took a quill from his schoolbag. Luna Lovegood's popping eyes appeared over the top of her upside-down magazine again, watching.

Neville held the Mimbulus mimbletonia up to his eyes, his tongue between his teeth, chose his spot, and gave the plant a sharp prod with the tip of his quill. Liquid squirted from every boil on the plant, thick, stinking, dark green jets of it; they hit the ceiling, the windows, and spattered Luna Lovegood's magazine.

Cedric managed to cast a shield just in time while Ginny, who had flung her arms up in front of her face, merely looked as though she was wearing a slimy green hat. Harry, however—whose hands had been busy preventing the escape of Trevor—received a face full. It smelled like rancid manure. Neville, whose face and torso were also drenched, shook his head to get the worst out of his eyes.

"S-sorry," he gasped. "I haven't tried that before… Didn't realize it would be quite so… Don't worry, though, Stinksap's not poisonous," he added nervously, as Harry spat a mouthful onto the floor. The train clacked on the rails for a few more seconds before Cedric howled with laughter—louder before—rudely interrupting the carriage's stunned silence.

"Not… _poisonous!"_ he gasped, small tears began to form in his eyes, "Great afterthought!"

Despite herself, Ginny also began to giggle helplessly, while Neville's worried face broke with a sigh of relief. Harry, struggling to see through the semi-opaque green essence that covered his glasses, began to blindly reach over to Cedric and clumsily smear the Stinksap onto his clothes.

"Wait no, no!" cried Cedric. He was still struck by laughter, "C'mon, I managed to avoid it!"

"And that's _annoying,"_ Harry retorted, though he couldn't help but smile all the same. As Cedric squirmed in his seat, Harry heard a familiar _clack!_ as at that precise moment the door of their compartment slid open.

"Hi, Harry, I just—oh!" someone faltered.

Harry wiped the lenses of his glasses with his Trevor-free hand. A very pretty girl with long, shiny black hair was standing in the doorway: Cho Chang, the Seeker of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team.

"Oh... hi," Harry said, blankly. Cho didn't seem fazed by the sight of their faces dripping in green goo. Instead her eyes were wide, and locked onto Cedric; whose laughter melted just as quickly, and another silence came to rest in their carriage.

"Hello, Cho." Cedric wiped at his eyes, but otherwise looked like porcelain.

He gave a perfect smile.

"H-Hullo, Cedric."

Looking between them, Harry suddenly realized that Cedric never got around to telling him what he promised, on the morning of his trial.

Something pressed uncomfortably against his stomach.

Everyone stayed motionless for a few seconds before Cho finally, took a step back into the corridor.

"Um…" said Cho. "Well… just thought I'd say hello… 'bye then," she closed the door again, rather pink in the face, and departed. For a while Cedric didn't break from that position, sitting completely still, head and eyes unmoving from the door. Harry didn't know what to do either. He had long given up on rubbing the Stinksap off his face.

The silence broke only when Neville groaned beside him, hiding his meek face behind the plant, "I'm _so _sorry—"

"Never mind," said Ginny bracingly. "Look, we can get rid of all this easily."

She pulled out her wand, "_Scourgify!" _

The Stinksap vanished.

"_Sorry," _said Neville again, in a small voice.

"Don't worry," Cedric said, turning to them at last. He looked pleased. "That plant—Mimbulus mimbletonia?—put on a great show! I think it's better than any book!"

Neville flushed, and beamed once again, while Harry; tried not to think about how long Cedric spent or how straight his back was, looking at Cho.


	24. A Particularly Long Train Ride (II)

ou reckon if we patrol in half an hour, we can get Crabbe and Goyle for something?" Ron said. It had been an hour before they had finally turned up in the carriage, and the food trolley had already passed. Ron was left scoffing down leftovers that Neville pressed into his hands, while Hermione furiously scrubbed away at her uniform sweater, which had been contaminated by Crookshank's fur.

"You shouldn't abuse your position on day one," she replied, frowning but not paying full attention. Ginny picked the crumbs off her brother's shirt as he gave a snort.

"Like Malfoy isn't already? I'm just going to make sure I get his mates before he gets mine."

"For _heaven's sake,_ Ron—" Hermione threw up her hands— "I'm sure that'll be a good enough reason for Professor McGonagall!"

"Wait—" Harry turned to them, aghast. Until this point, he had been reading a copy of Luna's magazine, _The Quibbler_—though it was probably more accurate to say that he had been skimming for the most blasphemous headlines, after realizing that "**SIRIUS- Black As He's Painted? Notorious Mass Murderer OR Innocent Singing Sensation?" ** was one of the more serious articles in it's pages.

"_Malfoy's_ a prefect?" he groaned.

"Yes! And that complete cow Pansy Parkinson," said Hermione viciously. "How she got to be a prefect when she's thicker than a concussed troll…"

"What about Hufflepuffs?" piped up Cedric.

"Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott," said Ron thickly.

"And Anthony Goldstein and Padma Patil for Ravenclaw," said Hermione.

"You went to the Yule Ball with Padma Patil," said a vague voice. Everyone turned to look at Luna, who was gazing unblinkingly at Ron over the top of her copy of _The Quibbler._ He swallowed his mouthful of Frog.

"Yeah, I know I did," he said, looking mildly surprised.

"She didn't enjoy it very much," Luna informed him. "She doesn't think you treated her very well, because you wouldn't dance with her. I don't think I'd have minded," she added thoughtfully, "I don't like dancing very much."

She retreated behind _The Quibbler _again. Ron stared at the cover with his mouth hanging open for a few seconds, then looked around at Ginny for some kind of explanation, but Ginny had stuffed her knuckles in her mouth to stop herself giggling.

Hurriedly, Hermione changed the topic, "By the way Cedric, so many people were _asking _for you!"

"Huh?" said Cedric, lifting his head from his book.

"You should've heard them all clamouring," Ron paused before he spoke in a high-pitched whine, "Oh, where's _Cedric?_ Did he quit? Can _we _quit too?"

"It wasn't just the girls," said Hermione raising an eyebrow at Ron.

"Oh yeah, sorry," said Ron, he then spoke low and thick, similar to Crabbe's, "Aw! My mate _Cedric _should be here too! Where's he at? He's the Headboy right!"

Despite herself Hermione grinned at Cedric, "Well, whoever the Headboy is now, he was quite flustered to hear everyone going on like that!"

"Oh dear!" said Cedric, but Harry could tell he was secretly, quite pleased.

"Still as popular as ever?" he wondered aloud.

"Just you wait," Cedric smiled, shaking his head. At that moment, their compartment door opened for a third time. Harry had expected this, but that did not make the sight of Draco Malfoy smirking at him from between his cronies Crabbe and Goyle any more enjoyable.

"What?" he said aggressively, before Malfoy could open his mouth.

"Manners, Potter, or I'll have to give you a detention," drawled Malfoy, whose sleek blond hair and pointed chin were just like his father's. "You see, I, unlike you, have been made a prefect, which means that I, unlike you, have the power to hand out punishments."

"Yeah," said Harry, "but you, unlike me, are a _git,_ so get out and leave us alone."

Hermione, Ginny, and Neville laughed. Ron began to murmur quietly, "_We're literally right here!" _but it seemed loud enough for Malfoy to catch, as his lip curled and his eyes immediately flickered between him and Harry.

"Tell me, how does it feel being second-best to Weasley, Potter?" he asked.

"Shut up, Malfoy!" said Ron immediately, but he seemed nervous, flinching at the sound of his own voice.

"I seem to have touched a nerve," Malfoy said, smirking. Gleefully lifting up his hands, he shrugged. "Well, just watch yourself, Potter, because I'll be _dogging _your footsteps in case you step out of line."

"Seriously Malfoy, could you shut that mouth of yours, I-" Ron glanced over at Harry and stuttered, stumbling over his words as Harry's eyes fell wildly unfocused; looking as if his face had been splashed by water.

_No… _

As Ron regained composure, Hermione stood up with a snarl, but not before also quickly turning to look at Harry, who knew at once that she—like him—had registered what Malfoy had said and been just as unnerved by it.

'Dogging'.

He'd be '_dogging' _his footsteps.

_Did he know?_ It felt like his stomach hardened into lead.

Harry could barely get a thought through the feeling of impending doom that squirmed under his gut. His mind whirled, reworking over and over again in a span of three seconds; blacking out logic, faith, trust, and situations of niceness in favour of awful ones; _unspeakable _ones. Originally, he had thought Sirius coming with him to the station was a bit of a laugh, some fun to ease his nerves… but suddenly it seemed reckless, if not downright _dangerous._

Mrs Weasley had been right… Sirius should not have come.

So many people had seen him around the streets of London, so many people have seen him jump and walk on his hind legs, and so many **menacing **people would know about his Animagus form; Peter Pettigrew made sure of that. Perhaps it was a bad idea to bring him out, did Malfoy _see? _And if he saw, wouldn't his father? Wouldn't his father's _friends? _

In a chance where Ron wasn't so quick with his tongue or Hermione so momentarily angry, the both of them distracting Malfoy from looking to his right; it wouldn't be hard for him to notice that Harry wrestled with certain fear in his eyes, that there something between shock and worry lining his brow—he was stunted silent. So honestly did he feel in that moment, sweating over notions, like whether Sirius was safe. Or if people could figure out where he was hiding from the few times he let himself leave?

Was Lupin safe? The house? Ron's parents?

Harry regretted not asking more about Grimmauld was secured, or how Dumbledore's protective spells work. He began to regret being so pleased that Sirius had properly seen him off on his first day. Trying to remember and associate cold gazes to the vague memories of blurry faces in his head. And the same old thread of thought winding around his head, tighter, cutting off circulation—If Malfoy knew, would his father?

If Malfoy knew, **wouldn't **his father?

In the midst of this, Harry heard Hermione step forward,

"Get out!" she said, forcefully. Sniggering, Malfoy leisurely glossed over each aggravated face in front of him but before he reached Harry's, Cedric leaned forward and called out, "Careful! That badge won't protect you from everyone, you know!"

It was a voice that Harry had only ever heard in the Quidditch pitch, and while quieter in this instance—Malfoy froze and turned to him at once, his sneer abruptly snapped into a stony face.

"I don't think I need to hear that kind of hypocrisy..." he said, "Where _were _you today, Mr Perfect? Did they kick you off the team?"

"All the more for some unsolicited advice," he said, smiling as serenely as Luna would, "'Cause it seems like you need it—"

"Are you _threatening _me?" Malfoy demanded, and on both his sides, Crabbe and Goyle stood straighter; almost growing in width. Cedric leant back, broadening his shoulders in a similar fashion.

"'Course not—as you said, I don't have any power to."

Malfoy's eyes narrowed and looked around the carriage, "I think you need to watch for the company you keep, Diggory. For your own safety,"

Cedric smiled at him, expression unmoved from before.

"Excellent point!" he said, "It's _so _good that perhaps, your father should take your own advice, too!"

One would have thought that Draco Malfoy had been slapped by Cedric Diggory by the way his nostrils flared in that moment, like wide-mouthed caverns while his cheeks stained two sanguine blots on his pale face. With eyes that slanted dangerously, Malfoy stared and stared—one dagger, two dagger, three!—at Cedric, scrambling for something to say.

And unable to settle, he instead turned swiftly around.

"Crabbe, shut the door!" he looked feverish.

"Eh?"

"NOW!"

As Crabbe trudged forward, Malfoy hissed from behind his shoulder, "Watch yourself, you _filthy _liar!"

"And you have a nice day, as well!" Cedric replied. The door slammed shut and Malfoy stalked away, the heavy footsteps of Crabbe and Goyle growing faint as they followed, lumbering after his wake.

The carriage was once again left in dumbfounded silence.

"That.. was…" Ron turned to Cedric breathlessly, "_Brilliant! "_

It looked like he would start clapping at any moment. Similarly, Hermione released a breath and plopped down into her chair.

"He's as awful as _ever,"_ she muttered roughly.

"Are you kidding me? He's grown worse!" said Ginny, unclenching her fists. "I can't believe Dumbledore made that toad a prefect!"

Quietly, Neville pulled his legs into his seat and scrunched his nose.

"I can," he mumbled, an eyebrow raised. Luna giggled from behind her up-side down magazine while Harry felt the pounding sound of his heart slowly fade away. Hermione stared at him, uneasy.

"It's alright Harry," she said.

"Yeah we're okay," chimed Ron. They both looked at him reassuringly, with eyes full of meaning but; Harry could only nod dully before he looked away into the window, knowing that he couldn't say too much in Neville and Luna presence. Slowly, as the carriage's silence filled with the build up of chatter—another wall that would comfortably blanket around him—Harry felt the tips of Cedric's fingers press against his forearm; careful. Gentle. He had crossed his arms in order to touch him discreetly, and he faced forward, as if pretending that he wasn't doing anything at all.

Stilled, Harry sighed.

Something alleviated in his stomach. A quiet fold.

Sirius was fine. He could temporarily believe that until, at the very least, he could send Hedwig to check.

As the others re-delved into the 'who's and 'what's of the prefect carriage, Luna perked up and watched Harry and Cedric slip from the conversation, oblivious to the group's machinations. As the train droned on, turning a long bend, Cedric smiled when he felt a weight—ever so slightly—lean against him. He said nothing and kept his fingers light on Harry's skin.

The carriage rocked as they closed the distance to Hogwarts, and eventually, Harry's mind slowed to it's normal pace.

* * *

Stepping out of the train, Harry reeled from the insane conjectures that he read in the last hour, regretting that he'd given Luna's magazine and its Sirius article a shot.

"Of all the things they could've said to prove his innocence-" muttered Harry stumbling onto the platform- "Saying he had the '_gospel soul of angel's_ got to be some sort of slander!"

From beside him, Cedric chuckled.

"Well from what I read over your shoulder, it seemed a rather refreshing change of pace," he said.

"'Refreshing's not the most interesting word for it," Ron snickered. Hermione looked around her to make sure Luna wasn't nearby.

"I told you The Quibbler was rubbish!" she whispered, leaning in, "Who in their right mind would run that sort of waffle?"

"Luna's father runs the magazine, I'm pretty sure," Ginny said from behind.

"Yes, yes he does," said a light voice. Hermione nearly tripped after realizing that Luna was right beside her.

"It's alright if you don't believe in it," Luna softly said, but it contrasted to the way she stared, her eyes pouring heavy. With meek nod, Hermione seemed to notice a lost first-year among the throngs of students making their way out of the train, and quickly grabbed Ron to come with as she walked away.

"She means well," Cedric said, as Harry gave his copy of _The Quibbler _back to Luna.

"Yes, I think so too," she replied. Harry exchanged a glance with Ginny, who still looked bizarrely amused while Luna gestured to the Pigwidgeon's cage, the little creature zooming around it's tiny bars in his usual overexcitedness.

"I'll carry that owl, if you like."

"Oh—er—thanks," said Harry, handing her the cage and hoisting Hedwig's more securely into his arms.

As they walked closer to the gate, Neville carefully made sure that Trevor was comfortable in his trouser pocket while Harry slotted his fingers through the bars of Hedwig's cage and scritched her beak. Luna and Ginny had their hands full making sure that Pigwidgeon stayed put, while beside them, Cedric carried Crookshanks in one arm and held the carrier Hermione brought for him, in the other.

It was a rather odd group to witness, and besides Ginny and Luna, it was not lost on any of them when people ducked their heads to whisper to their friends and moved at rather consistent distances away.

They shuffled out to the side to avoid attention, and felt the first sting of the night air on their faces as the wind picked up. Harry could smell the pine trees that lined the path down to the lake. He walked closer to the edge of the forest and looked around, listening for the familiar call of "_Firs' years over here… firs' years…"_, but it did not come.

Instead a quite different voice, a brisk female one, was calling, "First years line up over here, please! All first years to me!"

A lantern came swinging toward Harry and by its light he saw the prominent chin and severe haircut of Professor Grubbly-Plank, the witch who had taken over Hagrid's Care of Magical Creatures lessons for a while the previous year.

"Where's Hagrid?" he said out loud.

"I don't know," said Ginny, "But we'd better move on and save a coach. We'll be separated from those two otherwise," she pointed to a group of first years Hermione and Ron were leading to the edge of the lake.

Jostled through, Harry squinted through the darkness for a glimpse of Hagrid; he had to be here, Harry had been relying on it—seeing Hagrid again had been one of the things to which he had been looking forward to most. But there was no sign of him at all.

_He can't have left, _Harry told himself as he shuffled slowly through a narrow doorway onto the road outside with the rest of the crowd. _He's just got a cold or something… _

But before he knew it, they had been shunted into a forest clearing, the dirt road to Hogwarts laid in front of them. Students poured through, getting in the hundreds of the horseless stagecoaches that took everyone above the first-years to the castle. Ginny and Neville had seemingly chosen a coach but Harry stood in place and glanced quickly around, Hagrid still nowhere in sight. As he made his way to Ginny and Neville, Cedric caught Harry's arm.

"What are those things, d'you reckon?" he asked, suddenly. He nodded toward the carriages, Neville and Ginny stood by.

"What things?" Harry asked.

"Those horses, what d'you reckon they are?"

"What?"

"What?" Harry looked at Cedric strangely.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't kid, Harry," Cedric said, but his smile dropped as soon as Harry kept his gaze, confused.

"At the—there, between the shafts! Harnessed to the coach! It's right there in front of—" he stopped when Harry stood, tiptoe, to see. Following the line of Cedric's pointed finger, he scanned the forest around from its ground to the surrounding curtain of fir trees, the clouds muddling along the dark sky—but there was nothing of interest to note.

"Can't… can't you see them?" Cedric said.

"Again, see _what?" _

"The animals pulling the carriages, can't you see them?"

"_Animals?_ No I-" Harry glanced again, and did a double take. "Wait, hold on."

It was fuzzy. Almost as if something had been drawn there and then crudely erased, or if Harry looked at the world without his glasses, even though he was acutely aware that he had _not _taken them off. All he could make out was an outline, something that could only be described as the ghost of a creature that he'll never be sure of or, a spot that only lurks within the peripheraries of your vision. As he turned his head, left to right; Harry almost swore that he caught a shadow cast on the earth. He pulled Cedric's arm and they moved closer to the coach. There was more nothing there but Harry felt awash with the sense of _something,_ blocking the front of the coach.

"Can you see? They're right there," pointed Cedric, again.

"I don't know..." Harry murmured, "What are _you _seeing?"

"H-Horses. They look starved! And they have... _wings—_"

The moon shone bright from above, unrestricted for the moment as it fell through the gaps of trees, lighting up curled roots and clumps of leaves that had gathered on the forest floor.

Harry's heart stopped briefly.

From where they stood, he heard the sound of leaves being freshly crushed, as though something stepped slowly toward them. The wind rose as he looked forward, the sound louder and louder until abruptly, it halted.

"It walked closer," said Cedric, quietly. "I think it's _looking _at us."

_I know._ Harry wanted to say. But he stood silent and motionless, not daring to look away, as a hoof entered the moonlight followed by a dark leg, along with another hoof, another leg, a dark _body, _and then a head.

They watched as a creature walked into the light, starved like Cedric had said and looking every bit like a grey-skinned horse, but only from afar; it had a thin hide that looked like it was glued to its own skeleton. Protruding from it's spine, a set of unfurled wings, translucent in the light as slowly the creature made its way forward, _clip clop,_ muffled into the dirt floor. It's leather strappings strained as it moved toward then, and from its rear, the attached coach inched forward though Ginny and Neville didn't seem to hear the wheels creak.

"Are you seeing this right now?" said Cedric, breathing heavily.

"Y-yes it-!"

Both of them froze as it towered above, eyes pupiless and white. Nothing happened for a few seconds, until out of the corner of Harry's eye, he watched Cedric gradually push his hand forward; eventually holding it out at full length, toward the beast.

Harry forces himself to stay still as Cedric's hand trembled in the air. Slowly—just as slowly as it had walked—the creature seemed to register Cedric's presence and bowed down it's head low; it's snout, which looked more like a beak, coming to rest against Cedric's palm.

"What are you doing?" whispered Harry, urgently.

"Er- ah... petting?"

"What _the—"_

"Everything alright?" said a voice. Cedric and Harry whipped around to see Ron standing behind, looking about them with uncertainty.

Harry glanced back at the horse. It didn't seem to heed the appearance of a new person, eyes closed, snout pressed against Cedric's palm who just looked like he was stretching.

"Erm... shall we get in the coach?" Ron asked slowly, realizing that neither of them would answer back. Awkwardly, he gestured to Hermione who waited for them by the coach door. She held a lantern that glowed brighter as moonlight dimmed, the sky now overcome by clouds again.

"What?" Harry said, distractedly.

"Shall we get in the coach?" Ron repeated. Harry blinked.

"Aren't you seeing it?" he asked, mystified at how calm Ron was. His friend was the most queasy when it came to odd beasts, usually he would be yelling by now.

"Seeing what?" Ron said, tilting his head.

"The thing pulling the coaches? Look—!" Harry turned around, but the corpse-like horse no longer stood in its place behind him.

"What's pulling the coaches?" Ron looked from behind Harry's shoulder.

"There's… nothing," said Harry, breathless. He looked back at Ron with furrowed brows, "There's nothing!"

Ron stared at him, alarmed, "A-are you alright, mate?"

"...Yeah," said Harry. He turned around once more, squinting to catch any movement, before he turned back. "Yeah, I'm fine just… go ahead without us—"

Reluctantly, Ron made his way toward the coach while Harry stared at Cedric, who still had his arm stretched out.

"Is it still—"

"Still here," Cedric nodded, looking to his right. Harry watched as his hand moved, trailing up and down mid-air, as if actually _stroking _something.

"I can't see it anymore," Harry said, taking his glasses on and off. They both looked at each-other, bewildered.

_What in Merlin's name is happening?_

"It's all right," said a dreamy voice from beside Harry, "You're not going mad or anything. I can see them too."

Harry watched as Luna walked toward Cedric with a skip, her blonde hair flowing behind her as she held her hands behind her back.

"You _can?"_ Cedric asked, startled. But as she made her way beside him, bottle-cap necklace jingling, he could see the bat-like wings reflected in her large, silvery eyes.

"Oh yes," said Luna, "I've been able to see them ever since my first day here. They've always pulled the carriages, you know."

She reached out to touch the creature, but it snorted from under Cedric's palm and moved away, walking back to the carriage at a quick pace. Catching a dark shape blur in and out of the thin streams of moonlight escaping the trees, Harry perked towards it's direction.

"What are they?" he asked, squinting hard.

"Thestrals," Luna said. As if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"I-I see…" Cedric stared forward. He watched as the one he pet, stepped in place. "So I'm _not _crazy—"

"You're just as sane as I am," Luna confirmed. Though Harry didn't know if _he _would be comforted by that.

"But you-" She suddenly turned to him, head tilted and slightly curious- "You, I'm not so sure."

Harry stopped trying to look for the horse and snapped toward Luna, gaping with wide eyes, "_What?"_

She shrugged. Smiling faintly, Luna skipped away and climbed into the musty interior of the carriage, leaving Cedric and Harry alone. They looked to each other, unable to translate what they had just seen or heard.

"I er-.. Told you it'd be fun…" said Cedric, calling back to when they first stepped in Luna's carriage. Though in the air, it sounded more like a question. Harry felt the itch of his uniform on his skin, his expression blank despite the confines of his head, a strewn mess. Not altogether reassured, he and Cedric became quiet as they mulled over what they had just witnessed before finally, they followed Luna into the coach.


	25. Dumb, Caged Animals

Night settled well into the wood as the coaches streamed through, following a dirt path lit by tall, iron lamps; its dull glow split into several floating orbs of varying sizes that wandered, though never far from its peak.

In one carriage, sitting quietly in the corner, Cedric watched the light of the moon bounce off dark-skinned hides; the creatures leisurely pulling them through the trees. Water sprang when their hooves hit the babbling brook and the leather coil jerked as they bounded forward, loosening pebbles; the wings that sprouted from each wither—vast, black and leathery as though they ought to belong to giant bats.

If he had had to give them a name, Cedric supposed he would have called them horses, though there was something reptilian about them, too; they were completely fleshless, their black coats clinging to their skeletons, of which every bone was visible. Their heads were dragonish, and their pupil-less eyes white and staring. When they had stood still and quiet in the gloom, the creatures seemed eerie and sinister, and yet they were easy to shy away—and safe enough, at least in Dumbledore's eyes, to escort students. Cedric felt puzzled that the coaches were pulled by these strange creatures when in the past, they were capable of moving along by themselves. Could Hogwarts have run out of money after last year's incident in the tournament? And more than that, why could he and Luna even see them in the first place? Why them but no one else? And why could Harry see, only _sometimes?_

As darkness claimed more of the forest, Cedric lost to his thoughts, eyes flickering to each lantern as he grew more and more unsettled by the questions that lay restless on his skin. Beside him, Harry—who also kept his eyes trained out the window—perked up, glimpsing the silhouettes moving beyond the trees. But as quickly as their outlines glinted in the reflection of his glasses, he slumped down again, realizing that nothing was there and that the coaches were as horseless as usual.  
Occupying the seat in front of him and watching with mounted concern, Ron reached forward and touched Harry's shoulder.

"I don't think Hagrid'll be running alongside the coaches," he said, peering out as well.

"I'm not looking for him," Harry protested, though the reminder of their friend's absence did sour his mood further.

"Did everyone see that Grubbly-Plank woman?" asked Ginny, "What's she doing back here? Hagrid can't have left, can he?"

"I'll be quite glad if he has," said Luna, "He isn't a very good teacher, is he?"

"Yes, he is!" said Harry, Ron, and Ginny angrily. Harry glared at Hermione, who cleared her throat and quickly said, "Erm… yes… he's very good."

"Well, we think he's a bit of a joke in Ravenclaw," said Luna, unfazed.

"You've got a rubbish sense of humor then," Ron snapped, as the wheels below seemingly bumped on the road. Luna did not seem perturbed by Ron's rudeness; on the contrary, she simply watched him for a while as though he were a mildly interesting television program.

Feeling slightly awkward, Cedric turned to them and cleared his throat, "Well, lots of us at Hufflepuff think he's rather nice," he said. "He's the only one that the elves will let help in the kitchen… and he always slips the first-years extra biscuits afterwards, when he passes through the commons."

"Really?" said Harry, piqued at once. Ron also looked to him with incredulous eyes.

"Your common room is by the kitchen?!"

"Never mind that!" burst Hermione, suddenly excited, "The elves let him _help?"_

"Not when they can help it but," Cedric shrugged, "Every now and then? Yeah. He's the groundskeeper so they know him quite well."

"That's true—oh! Maybe he can help me with S.P.E.W!"

"You're _still _on about that?" moaned Ron. Hermione shot him a vexed look.

"As a club member, Ronald, you ought to be 'on about it' too!" she said, and before he could retort back, Ginny interjected by shooting out her hand.

"Er, what's… _spew?" _she asked, curiously.

"No, no, don't—!" Ron cried but Hermione's eyes had already begun to shine in a painfully familiar way, as she whisked out a newly painted donation tin and a box of handmade badges from under her uniform.

"How does she even keep it under there?!" Ron mumbled to Harry, though he could only shrug and watch as Hermione soon handed Cedric, Luna and Ginny shakily-drawn pamphlets from a stack of a dozen others that she had hidden up her sleeve.

"It's S-P-E-W," she corrected and ignoring Ron, "It stands for the Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare."

"Oh, I didn't know that the elves wanted to be free," said Luna, reading through her pamphlet carefully.

"Of course they do!" Hermione cried, "It's ridiculous how people can't seem to see that!"

The memory of Dobby briefly resurfaced in Harry's mind but he did not want to make the mistake of spurring Hermione on again without a safety net; it was possible that Ron would shoot him more daggers with his eyes than he did Ginny.

"I've only started it recently, so we don't have a lot of members yet," Hermione said, "but if any of you have spare Sickles and would _like _to…" she looked hopefully toward Cedric, who could only smile in an apologetic sort-of way.

"I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm still hoping to be on the Quidditch team this year."

"Oh," she said, turning pink, "That's right!"

A thick silence followed as Hermione fumbled to put her boxes away, and Luna put her pamphlet down on her lap—

"I'll join if you'd like," she said, raising her hand.

Surprised, Hermione whipped around, "R-Really?", the thick ends of her hair whacking Ron right in the mouth.

"_Ow!"_

"Shush!"

"Your pamphlet's very good. And it feels like a sound cause," Luna said, she took out two Sickles from a purse that looked very much like a boiled frog, (which caused Neville to immediately cradle the pocket with Trevor inside) and Hermione's face lit up with a genuine smile.

"I-.. It is a sound cause! Thank you, Luna!" she said, happily handing over one of the many badges from the box. Luna looped it along the many bottle-caps that crowded her necklace.

"I'll join too," said Ginny, taking out her own two Sickles.

"Wait, you have money?" Ron said, stunned.

"Yeah, Fred and George randomly gave me some the other day," she replied. Ron mouthed a puzzled "_What?!"_ while Harry tried not to look too guilty. Suddenly, from the window, Cedric caught sight of rain-washed stone.

"We're nearly there!" he said, looking out the window, just as the carriage passed the two tall stone pillars that gated the school grounds. Leaning out of his own window, Harry attempted to discern whether any of the lights lit the interior of Hagrid's hut by the Forbidden Forest. However as they crossed the bridge, he was disappointed to see that the grounds below lay in complete darkness.

"He's not home!" Harry said, groaning slightly to himself as the longer he stared, the more uneasy he felt about the sight of a truly _dark _woodland; as if for a moment it truly was the Forbidden Forest simply because Hagrid's hut was not casting off light or its regular plumes of smoke. Sullen, Harry turned to relay the bad news when suddenly two dark and bony horses swerved into his line of sight and hurtling toward him.

The blood within his arms run cold, the same panic and stiffness that he had felt the first time he had seen the creatures, seeped into his body; shaking him. Before he could force himself inside, the coach jolted, hitting another bump below and violently, Harry lurched forward—keeling over the window like a rag doll.

"Dragon balls!" swore Ron, whipping upward. He struggled to move forward, staggering in the coach while in the same moment, a wide-eyed Hermione who had reached over to their dangling friend, flung backward as well.

"Harry!" she shrieked, muffled by the sound of Neville, Luna and Ginny were thrown and jostled over their seats.

Oblivious, Harry gaped at the horses, quickly able to make out their disconcerting skeletal faces as they thundered closer and louder. Winded and drooped over the window, he could no longer tell whether the voice that shrieked all manners of intermingling wizard and Muggle swear words was even inside his head before—_"WOAH!" _

Suddenly pulled from behind, he fell back into the carriage and landed roughly against Cedric who stared, bewildered, from above.

"Are you alright?!" said Neville, from under Ginny's limbs.

"Y-yes!" Harry panted. He watched as his friends untangled themselves before Hermione whipped to him in disbelief.

"What were you doing?!" she exclaimed.

"Looking at Hagrid's house! The horses just, er—!" Harry glanced between her and Cedric— "the _coach _just sped up,"

"Oh, they always do that! The road's wider now, see?" said Luna, straightening. All of them looked outside the window where another line of coaches had seemingly split from the initial one, filling in the dirt road that slowly stretched into cobblestone,

"Right," Harry said breathlessly, "Right."

As the others began to reorganize themselves—jumping, when the carriage behind hit the same bump on the road—Cedric steadied and helped Harry upright and watched as briefly he looked out once more, his startled eyes following the (what did Luna call them?) Thestrals, as they galloped past.

What was the condition? _Why could Harry only see them __**sometimes?**_

It felt like if he could answer that question, maybe he could answer the others but for now; it would have to be left as another temporary mystery—Hogwart's castle looming ever closer; a towering mass of turrets, jet-black against the dark sky, here and there a window blazing fiery bright above them.

"We're back!" said Neville excitedly, sticking his head out the window. The others crowded behind Neville and stared in awe, while many more did the exact same inside their own coaches.

Harry stared at the castle, feeling slightly winded as though the edge of the coach's window still pressed against him.

"We're home," he whispered quietly. And as if it heard him, the castle's gigantic wooden gate creaked open, and the lines of carriages rolled through—Harry counting the beat of the Thestrals' hooves against the courtyard's stone floor.

* * *

The entrance hall was ablaze with torches and echoing footsteps as the students crossed the flagged stone floor for the double doors to the right, leading to the Great Hall and the start-of-term feast.

From the front door, Harry could see that the four long House tables in the Great Hall were filling up under the starless black ceiling, which was just like the sky they could glimpse through the high windows. Candles floated in midair all along the tables, illuminating the silvery ghosts who were dotted about the Hall and the faces of the students talking eagerly to one another, exchanging summer news, shouting greetings at friends from other Houses, eyeing tone another's new haircuts and robes. As they walked forward, Harry noticed people putting their heads together to whisper as he passed and he gritted his teeth, trying to act as though he neither noticed nor cared. But with more people swarming around the full light of the castle's torches, Harry could see more clearly that he was not the only object of scrutiny.

"Cedric—" he said, quickly. He made an attempt to grab the boy's arm but then hesitated, and instead waited for Cedic to turn before he lead him toward the edge of the Great Hall's doors. Already, there were many people leaning over the Hufflepuff table, trying to get a look at him, before he swiftly disappeared from the doorway.

"What's wrong?" he said, "Are you alright?"

"I ought to ask _you _that," said Harry, glancing past his shoulder.

Cedric frowned, "Five minutes ago, you nearly chucked yourself out the coach because you saw a Thestral—"

"—And you're seeing them all the time!"

"That's alright. I think if Luna's seeing them as well, it shouldn't be too out of the ordinary,"

"I don't think she's a good way to measure that…" murmured Harry quietly. He made a very pointed glare at a few peeking people behind them who scurried inside.

"Eyes up here, Harry," Cedric said half-joking, half-serious.

"Shush," said Harry distractedly. He let some ghosts, who eyed them with a cocked brow, pass overhead before he was satisfied to speak again.

"Look, I didn't get to follow up about your dreams… or about—" he paused— "... _other things."_

The hand that clenched his sleeves, grew sweaty. Though he deeply wanted to know, it was probably better not to directly mention Cho.

"We're talking now though," Cedric said.

"I meant in _private—"_ Harry gestured behind them. Immediately more of the faces that walked by, looked to them as if on cue.

"When we settle in," Cedric promised, "We'll have plenty of time tomorrow."

Harry bit the inside of his cheek, almost not wanting to bring it up and yet it seemed vital in the moment, "You really think spending more time together is a good idea?" he asked, nervously. Cedric only looked at him as if he said something silly.

"It'd be stranger if the Boys Who Lied avoided each other, don't you think?"

"True," Harry said. He sighed but felt a little lighter on his feet, as the crowd of students filling into the Great Hall slowed to a trickle and the light inside gleamed bright, reaching far to the entrance hall's front steps.

"Thank you, by the way… pulling me in and er—earlier with Malfoy," Harry said, eyeing the door, though he didn't pay as much attention to the onlookers as before.

"Of course," Cedric replied. He looked at Harry a while, carefully considering his words. "Just—just don't be a stranger, eh?" Harry looked to him in mild surprise.

"And the same to you," he said.

"I won't," said Cedric, meeting his eyes.

Harry ignored the urge to grin widely; suddenly embarrassed like this was the first time he had ever talked to him.

"Alright then. Er… good," he said, blinking rather rapidly.

"Good." Cedric repeated. He began to smile in a way that Harry was almost certain he had never seen before.

"W-Well, it's time to go… I'll see you then—" he stammered, beginning to hurriedly push past, but Cedric quickly caught and grabbed him by the arm.

"No, no, no! Let's do this properly, c'mon—"

Pulling Harry forward, Cedric fearlessly walked with him inside the Great Hall, just as the doors closed behind.

Harry didn't know what he precisely had in mind in doing this but it seemed that no one else had the grace to play subtle any longer, as heads from as far as the opposite walls, turned and watched them staunchly walk in together. Fortunately, no one seemed to be holding their breath as the Great Hall echoed with the same level of noise and chatter it always did, but Harry could feel a rather prominent pounding inside his head; it pulsed so loudly that even his own attention was taken away from everyone around him, and focused only on Cedric's back as he followed him down the rows. When they had reached a gap between the tables, Cedric finally let go and patted Harry on the arm.

"_Tomorrow," _he mouthed, winking and then he walked off; leaving a trail of people trading looks and an oddly relieved yet sheepish Harry behind.

"Did you see that?" said someone, though he couldn't tell who or from where.

"Yeah, seems like they're still friends—"

"You don't _really _think Diggory would fraternize with him if he wasn't crazy himself, right?" said someone else.

"Well, from what I'm seeing, it looks like they've both gone **binty—" **

"Shhh!"

_Yes, please shut up,_ Harry thought, practically running down the aisle. He ignored Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown, who gave airy, overly friendly greetings that made him quite sure they had stopped talking about him a split second before and slipped in between Ron and Hermione, covering his red ears and feeling every bit as mortified while also—and at the same time—bathing in something that strangely felt a lot like pleasure; as he dared to not look back at Cedric's figure across the tables.

"What the hell was that?" said Ron, quizzically.

"I don't know, he just—he wanted to make a statement or something, I think, and—"

Ron turned around as if he had barely noticed that Harry just arrived, "Huh?"

"Oh, er—what were you talking about?"

"Over there!" Ron said, pointing toward the front. Harry followed his finger and looked over the students' heads to the staff table, that ran along the top wall of the Hall.

"D'you mean Grubbly-Plank sitting in Hagrid's seat?" he asked, with unease.

"What?" Ron looked over in shock, "Blimey! Well… that's important too, but look at Dumbledore…"

Professor Dumbledore sat in his high-backed golden chair at the center of the long staff table, wearing deep-purple robes scattered with silvery stars and a matching hat. Dumbledore's head was inclined toward the woman sitting next to him, who was talking into his ear. She looked, Harry thought, like somebody's maiden aunt: squat, with short, curly, mouse-brown hair in which she had placed a horrible pink Alice band that matched the fluffy pink cardigan she wore over her robes. Then she turned her face slightly to take a sip from her goblet and he saw, with a shock of recognition, a pallid, toadlike face and a pair of prominent, pouchy eyes.

"It's that Umbridge woman!" Harry said, wide-eyed.

"Who?" said Hermione.

"She was at my hearing—she… she works for Fudge!"

"What's she doing here then?" wondered Ron, aloud.

"She must be _that new staff member"_ Hermione murmured anxiously, "The one that barred Cedric from being Prefect,"

"Oh—dragon balls!" Harry said, having learning that particular swear from Ron before. Suddenly the doors flew open and McGonagall's black hat poked behind the rows of heads, leading a group of terrified first-year's down the aisle. As she made her way forward, the chatter and wild laughter dwindled to an almost instant silence, attributed to the fact that McGonagall's lips were pursed in a thinner line than Harry had ever seen before, and that her brow had slanted so sharply, she looked more like a hawk.

"She's looking right at that Umbridge woman, d'you see?" Ron said in a low voice.

"Yeah," Harry said, a little bit glad that he was not the only one that disliked her too.

"By the way, where were you?" Hermione whispered.

"Later," he said.

Throughout the evening, Harry didn't take his eyes off Umbridge's pink frame, and despite the lightheadedness that he felt before; he couldn't get over the very bad feeling that persisted in the pit of his stomach.

* * *

Climbing through a portrait shortcut and dejected that Ron and Hermione gone to lead the first-years through the stairs, Harry felt perhaps the most tired than he had ever been.

"What do you think that new teacher was talking about?" said Neville, behind him. Inadvertently, Harry shuddered. In his head, "_Progress for progress's sake must be discouraged," _tinkled in that high-pitched, breathy, and little-girlish voice and again, Harry felt a powerful rush of dislike that he could not explain to himself; all he knew was that he loathed everything about her, from her stupid voice to her fluffy pink cardigan.

"It made as much sense as the Sorting Hat's new song, I suppose," he said, trying to shake down the tremors inside his stomach.

"Oh! Well I liked that much better than her speech," Neville said, "_And never since the founders four, were whittled down to three, have the Houses been united, as they once were meant to be—… _it was rather nice," he said after singing.

"You have a really nice voice, Neville," said Harry, mindlessly and from behind, he could feel his friend positively _radiate _with energy.

"Thanks Harry!"

They walked through the mostly empty hallways—save for the few students who also knew how to navigate the castle—and Harry climbed into the Fat Lady's entrance, with Neville singing more of the Sorting Hat's verses under his breath. The Gryffindor common room was welcoming as ever, a cozy circular tower room full of dilapidated squashy armchairs and rickety old tables. A small fire crackled merrily in the grate and a few people were warming their hands before going up to their dormitories, and on the other side of the room, Fred and George Weasley were pinning something on the notice board.

Harry waved good-night to them and headed straight for the door to the boys' dormitories, feeling unavailable for talking at the moment. As he and Neville approached the dormitory, they realized that the others had reached their room first, and were in the process of covering the walls beside their beds with posters and photographs.

"Oh, good!" Harry breathed, excited to see Dean but more specifically Seamus's figure.

_Here's my chance,_ he thought, _to apologize._ But before Harry could push the half-open door further, he watched as Dean placed his hand on Seamus's slumped shoulders, and immediately froze—causing Neville to bump into him.

"What's going o—"

"—Shh!" Harry pointed through the crack of the door. Neville's face dropped.

"Oh no! Is he crying? Seamus—!" Neville pushed past and swung the door wide open, much to Harry's horror. "Are you O.K?"

"Oh, Neville, Harry!" Dean turned around, surprised. Seamus's back snapped straight immediately. "He isn't—Seamus's just sulking, he's had a rubbish holiday..."

"Why, what happened?" Neville asked as he placed his _Mimbulus mimbletonia _tenderly on his bedside cabinet. Harry gingerly walked inside the room, embarrassed that he misinterpreted the situation.  
As he began to unpack on his bed, he noticed that Seamus did not answer immediately; rather he stood up and made a meal of ensuring that his poster of the Kenmare Kestrels Quidditch team was quite straight. Then he said, with his back still turned to Harry, "Me mam didn't want me to come back."

"What?" said Harry, pausing in the act of pulling off his robes.

"She didn't want me to come back to Hogwarts," Seamus turned away from his poster and pulled his own pajamas out of his trunk, still not looking at Harry.

"But—why?" said Harry, astonished. He knew that Seamus's mother was a witch and could not understand, therefore, why she had become so Dursley-ish.

Seamus did not answer until he had finished buttoning his pajamas.

"Well," he said in a measured voice, "I suppose… because of you an' Diggory."

"What d'you mean?" said Harry quickly. His heart was beating rather fast. It felt vaguely as though something was closing in on him.

"Well," said Seamus again, still avoiding Harry's eyes, "she… er… well, it's not just you two, it's Dumbledore too…"

"She _believes _the Daily Prophet?" said Harry, realizing, "She thinks we're liars and Dumbledore's an old fool?"

Seamus looked up at him. "Yeah, something like that."

Harry said nothing. He threw his wand down onto his bedside table, pulled off his robes, stuffed them angrily into his trunk, and pulled on his pajamas.

He was _sick _of it; sick of the people stared at and talked all the time as if they were pointing and looking at some dumb, caged animals. If any of them _knew—_if any of them had the faintest idea what it felt like to be the one all these things had happened to…!

Harry felt something stab inside him, the image of Cedric's body curled up in that dark corner, his thinned frame, the fleeting hollowness that lingered in those eyes each morning…

Mrs. Finnigan had no idea, no idea at all—_the stupid woman_, he thought savagely.

He got into bed and made to pull the hangings closed around him, but before he could do so, Seamus said, "Look… what did happen that night when… you know, when… with Cedric and all?"

"Don't say his name if you're rubbing it in the dirt!" Harry snapped, suddenly flaring when Seamus sounded nervous and eager at the same time. Dean, who had been bending over his trunk, trying to retrieve a slipper, went oddly still and Harry knew he was listening hard.

"And what are you asking me for?" Harry continued, unable to stop himself, "Just read the Daily Prophet like your mother, why don't you? That'll tell you all you need to know!"

"Don't you have a go at my mother," barked Seamus.

"I'll have a go at anyone who calls hi—me a liar," Harry said.

"Don't talk to me like that!"

"I'll talk to you how I want," said Harry, his temper rising so fast he snatched his wand back from his bedside table. "If you've got a problem sharing a dormitory with me, go and ask McGonagall if you can be moved! That'll stop your _mummy _worrying—"

"Leave my mother out of this, Potter!"

"What's going on?"

Ron appeared in the doorway. His wide eyes traveled from Harry—who was kneeling on his bed with his wand pointed out—to Seamus, who was standing there with his fists raised.

"He's having a go at my mother!" he yelled.

"What?" said Ron, "Harry wouldn't do that—we met your mother, we liked her…"

"That's before she started believing every word the stinking Daily Prophet writes about me!" said Harry at the top of his voice.

"Oh," said Ron, comprehension dawning across his freckled face. "Oh… right."

"You know what?" said Seamus heatedly, casting Harry a venomous look. "He's right, I don't want to share a dormitory with him anymore. He's a madman!"

"That's out of order, Seamus," said Ron whose ears—unlike Harry—were always a danger sign when they started to glow red.

"Out of order, am I?" shouted Seamus, who in contrast with Ron was turning paler. "You believe all the rubbish he an' Diggory have come out about You-Know-Who then, do you? You reckon they're telling the truth?"

"Yeah, I do!" said Ron angrily.

"Then you're mad too," said Seamus in disgust.

"Yeah? Well unfortunately for you, pal, I'm also a prefect!" said Ron, almost spitting as he jabbed himself in the chest with a finger. "So unless you want detention, watch your mouth!"

For a few seconds, Seamus glowered as though detention would be a reasonable price to pay to say what was going through his mind; but with a noise of contempt he turned on his heel, vaulted into bed, and pulled the hangings shut with such violence that they were ripped from the bed and fell in a dusty pile to the floor.

Ron glared at Seamus, then looked at Dean and Neville.

"Anyone else's parents got a problem with Harry?" he said aggressively.

"My parents are Muggles, mate," said Dean, cautiously. "They don't know nothing about no deaths at Hogwarts, because I'm not stupid enough to tell them."

"You don't know my mother, she'll weasel anything out of anyone!" Seamus grumbled. "Anyway, your parents don't get the Daily Prophet, they don't know our headmaster's been sacked from the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards because he's losing his marbles—"

"Shut it, Seamus!" Harry scoffed.

"What? You're protecting Dumbledore too?!"

"_Merlin,_ just go to bed! The both of you!" Ron cried out, exasperated.

Without hesitation, Seamus got out his wand, repaired the bed hangings, and vanished behind them. Dean got into bed and rolled over, before he too fell silent, while Neville—who up until now had been extremely focused at his moonlit cactus—slipped into his blankets as well, pulling the covers right up to his chin.

Harry sat back on his bed while Ron bustled around the next one, putting his things away. He caught his friend's arm and then surprised himself, when he whispered a very small and unsteady, "Thank you, Ron."

Harry couldn't look him in the eye.

It felt damning to have Seamus look and argue with him like that, especially when Harry had always liked him very much.

But how many more people were going to suggest that he was lying or unhinged? Had Dumbledore suffered like this all summer, as the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards had thrown him from their ranks? Was it anger at Harry, perhaps, that had stopped Dumbledore getting in touch with him for months?

And what about Cedric?  
Already, he had been hurt in ways that couldn't compare to simple demotions but Harry knew that having his status as Quidditch Captain and Prefect taken away had cut deep. The two of them were in this together, with Dumbledore being the one who had believed them, and announced their version of events to the whole school and then to the wider Wizarding community and yet; it was their reputations, not Harry's, that had been damaged the most. It was their lives that had seemingly taken a horrible turn because anyone who thought Harry was a liar had to think that both Cedric and Dumbledore were too, or else that they had been hoodwinked—it was all his fault.

Swiftly, and as if this all had been spelt out on his face, Harry felt something lightly swat the back of his head before a hand pulled him into a hug.

"Don't mind it," Ron mumbled to him gently, and then in a louder voice, he said, "Good night, Harry."

"Good night, Ron," Harry said, weakly. He climbed into his bed and Ron extinguished the last lit candle, dousing the dormitory in both silence and darkness.

Though he desperately wanted to sleep, Harry's eyes stayed open as one by one he heard Seamus, Ron and Dean breathe in that slow and deep way, still somewhat comforting despite all that happened. One hour ticked by, and then another before suddenly, Harry's ears pricked, the bed next to his creaking as someone shifted slightly.

"Harry," Neville whispered, as he turned to face him, "My gran thinks it's all rubbish. She says it's the Daily Prophet that's going downhill, not Dumbledore so she's canceled our subscription. We believe Harry,"

"...Thank you, Neville," Harry whispered back, and though he couldn't see it in the dim moonlight, he could picture Neville smiling back and felt a sudden rush of gratitude.

_They'll know we're right in the end_, he thought, firmly. It was only a matter of time. But how many attacks like Seamus's, would he and Cedric have to endure before that time came?

Harry didn't know. He could only hope that Cedric fared better tonight.

And so, feeling slightly less miserable, Harry let himself fall into deep slumber.


	26. Of Last Straws and Head Sickness

he next morning, Ron shook Harry awake.

Sunlight seeped through their dormitory's open window and around him the others were already shuffling, sifting through their drawers for socks and red and yellow ties or, stuffing extra parchment into the pockets of their book bags. Groggily, Harry sat up just in time to see Seamus don on his robes and open the door of the dormitory in rapid pace.

"Are you nutter too if you stay in a room with me too long?" he asked loudly, bleary eyes catching the hem of Seamus's robes whipping out of sight.

"Don't worry about it, Harry," Dean muttered, hoisting his bag onto his shoulder. "He's just…er—" but apparently he was unable to say exactly what Seamus was, and after a slightly awkward pause gave a farewell and followed his friend out of the room.

"C'mon mate, it's not your problem," Ron said, muffled by the sweater he was half-done putting on, "Let's just get ready."

Five minutes later they descended down the stairwell and entered the common room, just in time to meet Hermione, who was staring at the House notice-board. Her eyes widened when she noticed them.

"Oh, _Harry—!" _she said. Harry leant down a little as Hermione stuck her fingers through his hair, "Your hair is a mess!"

"Sirius said it's in my genes," he said, flinching as Hermione tried to tame the stick-ups and the sides that wouldn't _stick to_ the side.

"Your father?"

"No, my mum," Harry said. "He said she was a '_wild ginger,'"_

Hermione eventually loosened her fingers and narrowed her eyes, "Speaking of wild gingers—" she pointed to a particularly colorful notice the board— "They're at the _limit," _

GALLONS OF GALLEONS!

Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings?

Like to earn a little extra gold?

— ◐ —

Contact Fred and George Weasley,

Gryffindor common room,

for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs

(WE REGRET THAT ALL WORK IS UNDERTAKEN AT APPLICANT'S OWN RISK)

"We'll have to talk to them, Ron," said Hermione, grimly taking down the sign.

Ron looked positively alarmed, "Why?"

"Because we're prefects!" said Hermione. Harry could tell from the glum expression that the prospect of stopping Fred and George doing exactly what they liked was not one that Ron found inviting, but he said nothing as they climbed out through the portrait hole. Hermione stifled a yawn behind her palm.

"Tired already?" Harry asked.

"I was up knitting last night,"

"_Knitting? _I thought you went to bed early," said Ron, aghast, "Don't tell me Fred and George actually got into your head about the O.W.L's this year…"

"I _was _knitting," she said, walking ahead. Following behind her, Ron mouthed a "_Yeah right," _before he too stepped onto the landing.

"Anyway, what's wrong with you two?" Hermione continued, as they walked down a flight of stairs lined with portraits of old witches and wizards, all of whom ignored them, being engrossed in their own conversation, "You look really angry about something."

"Seamus reckons Harry's lying about You-Know-Who," said Ron succinctly, when Harry did not respond. Hermione, whom Harry had expected to react angrily on his behalf, only sighed.

"Lavender thinks so too," she said gloomily.

"Did she say that I'm a lying, attention-seeking prat or a big-headed troll with a god complex?" Harry asked in feigned innocence.

"Didn't really get the details after I told her to keep her big fat mouth shut," Hermione said in a low voice. Surprising himself, Harry gave a short bark of laughter that echoed down the Grand Staircase.

"Unexpectedly last night, our own Mr Weasley did the exact same thing—"

"Of course!" they both cried, interrupting him. Ron turned in swift indignance, "If you haven't noticed, we both _are _on _your _side."

"Sorry. Sorry!"

"Besides, don't you remember what Dumbledore said at the end-of-term feast last year?" Hermione said. Harry and Ron both looked at her blankly, and she sighed again.

"About You-Know-Who. He said, 'His gift for spreading discord and enmity is very great. We can fight it only by showing an equally strong bond of friendship and trust—' "

"How do you remember stuff like that?" asked Ron, looking at her in admiration.

"I listen, Ron," said Hermione, though she was unable to hide how the corner of her mouth quirked—"Anyways, the point is that he was _right. _You-Know-Who's only been back two months and we've started fighting among ourselves. The Sorting Hat's warning was the same too—stand together, be united—"

They reached the foot of the marble staircase where a line of fourth-year Ravenclaws crossed the entrance hall. When they caught sight of Harry, they hurried to form a tighter group as though frightened he might attack stragglers.

"Yeah, we really ought to be trying to make friends with people like _that,"_ said Harry sarcastically.

"You'd think we're Hogwarts own personal brand of bogeyman," someone said above his ear. They all jumped around whirled around the tall boy that suddenly appeared behind, his hands stuffed inside his pockets while he smiled at them.

"Cedric!" Ron spluttered, "Bloody hell! Where'd _you _come from?"

"Violet's portrait," Cedric said, waving to a small chamber behind him because _of course,_ he knew the passages.

"Well-pf! You scared us!"

"Speak for yourself, Ron," Hermione said, and Harry eyed her with mild confusion because she was acting as though she hadn't jumped as high as the rest of them. But Cedric didn't seem to notice as he laughed.

"On guard already? It's only the first day," he said, amused.

"It's like you haven't spent the entire second-half of summer in the murder home!" Ron shot back and they continued to walk towards the Great Hall, with Cedric cheerfully jaunting beside them.

"How are you?" he said, asking Harry in a smaller voice.

"Yeah… _good,"_ Harry muttered, shaking his head slightly, "How about you? Something nice happened?"

He couldn't help but notice a slight change, Cedric somehow looked… fresher, than the last time. There was a skip to his walk, and he looked like he had gotten a full night's rest—

"Had a chat with my friends when I hit the commons last night," Cedric said, looking at the floor almost shyly. "It was a _long _chat, surprised I even woke up this early…"

"Was it—er—a good? chat?"

Cedric nodded.

"Very good. I sort of spilled everything—though nothing about the summer or any details obviously—but, erm—" he smiled fondly. "They believe us! So, win-win for all this time round. I should introduce them to you all at some point,"

Harry began to smile, "I'm so glad for you."

"Mhm," Cedric looked at him, "But tell me really, how was your end? You don't look all that 'good',"

Harry scrunched his face in a way that could only be described as the puckered face of a mandrake, which made Cedric laugh out loud, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, it's serious, I know—" he said, trying to maintain composure.

"It's alright," said Harry shaking his head again. He felt almost thankful that at least something good came out of last night's situation, "One of my mates—or I guess that's not really the correct term now—one of them guys at my dorm said some things about... me.. and I got a little _flared _up."

Cedric frowned.

"Oh! He didn't _hurt _me or anything,"

"Did you hurt _him?"_

"No! But.. I think I may have, erm—" Harry swallowed, as they reached the giant doorway to the Great Hall, a sudden spike of dread shot through Harry's stomach. "I feel like I've hurt other people though,"

He felt deeply uncomfortable, and like last night, already could see and feel the heads turned their way.

"Like who?" asked Cedric quizzically. Harry bit the inside of his lip but before he could even start, a tall black girl with long, braided hair marched beside them.

"Oh hi Angelina,"

"Hi Diggory!" she said briskly, "good summer?" And without waiting for an answer, "Sorry could I borrow Harry for the moment?"

"Er, sure." said Harry, jumping in. It took Cedric aback, "We can talk later,"

"Oh, right well—"

"Later," Harry, mouthing it like a promise. He'd promising 'later' a lot recently.

"Okay."

"Bye Diggory!" Angelina said, and Cedric gave a little wave before he turned to leave. As soon as he walked out of earshot, she adopted that brisk tone again and said, "Listen, I've been made Gryffindor Quidditch Captain."

"Nice one!" said Harry, grinning at her; he suspected that Angelina was very much trying to mask both her anxiety and excitement, though her fidgeting fingers betrayed the business-like tone of her voice.

"We need a new Keeper now that Oliver's left, and I want the whole team to be at the try-outs, alright? So we can see how the new person'll fit in,"

"Cool," said Harry. Angelina patted his shoulder and walked with him to the part of the Gryffindor table where he could spot Hermione and Ron's heads, and only listening about forty percent or thereabouts as she rambled about her goals for the season. The remainder of his attention channeled in glances toward the Hufflepuff table, and as he and Angelina stopped and stood behind his seated friends, another sprout of gladness blossomed within him as he watched Cedric and a boy with curly hair greet each other with warm laughter.

"Good," he sighed.

"Great! Then, I'll have you test out the Keeper candidates then!" said Angelina, eagerly. Ron's head perked upward while Harry turned to her, startled.

"Sorry, what?"

"Thanks Harry! I'll see you on Friday, five o'clock, for the try-outs, yeah?" Angelina bounced away, leaving Harry to rummage through his pocket and stare at his very crammed, very ominous timetable.

Shit.

* * *

"—can't understand where they got the Galleons! And what's more-! Wait… Are you still listening?"

Harry straightened up, "I _am,_ sorry," and he continued to try and absorb the information from the Quidditch book he had borrowed. "Er, something about… galleons?"

"Yeah Fred and George got me new dress robes the other week! And they've been talking about dropping out of Hogwarts—I think they may actually have found funding for their joke shop!"

"Oh well erm—speaking of—d 'you know what you want to do after Hogwarts?" Harry asked, deciding that it was time to steer the conversation out of these dangerous waters.

"Not really," said Ron slowly. "Except... well..."

He looked slightly sheepish.

"What?" Harry urged him.

"Well, it'd be cool to be an Auror," said Ron in an offhand voice.

"Yeah, it would," said Harry thoughtfully.

"But they're, like, the _elite_," said Ron. "You've got to be really good. What about you, Hermione?"

"I don't know," said Hermione. "I think I'd really like to do something worthwhile."

"An Auror's worthwhile!"

"Yes, it is, but it's not the only worthwhile thing," said Hermione. "I mean, if I could take S.P.E.W. further..."

Harry and Ron carefully avoided looking at each other.

They had occupied their usual table in the library, but Harry had unfortunately noticed a dramatic increase of paper and books and spare quills they've buried themselves in, compared to last year's first day; it might even be the first time he's ever used a lunch period to do work, but the sheer amount study they'd been assigned so far felt daunting otherwise; Snape and Professor Binns, Flitwick and McGonagall all required some sort of essay or writing that spanned parchment inches in double-digits or at the very least, some intense hours spent practicing spells after class.

"How, in Merlin's pants, are we supposed to get this all done before Friday?!" Harry groaned.

"Still fuming about our Potions lesson?" Ron said.

"That _was _really unfair," said Hermione consolingly, sitting down next to Harry. "Your potion wasn't nearly as bad as Goyle's, when he put it in his flagon the whole thing shattered and set his robes on fire."

"You'd think he'd be better this year, considering he's in the Order,"

"Yeah, well," said Harry, glowering at Potions book, "Since when has Snape ever been fair to me?"

Neither of the others answered; all three of them knew that Snape and Harry's mutual enmity had been absolute from the moment Harry had set foot in Hogwarts. He could feel his head throbbing, a headache _now _of all times!

"Poisonous toadstools don't change their spots," said Ron sagely. "Anyway, I've always thought Dumbledore was cracked trusting Snape, where's the evidence he ever really stopped working for YouKnow-Who?"

"I think Dumbledore's probably got plenty of evidence, even if he doesn't share it with you, Ron," snapped Hermione.

"Oh, shut up, the pair of you," said Harry heavily, as Ron opened his mouth to argue back. Hermione and Ron both froze, looking angry and offended.

"Can't you give it a rest?" he said. "You're always having a go at each other, it's driving me mad." And sweeping all his things into his arm, he swung his schoolbag back over his shoulder and left them sitting there.

He walked past many students hurrying toward the Great Hall, who did not help by shying away from him or acting dramatically when he walked past, like it was the first time they'd ever seen him. The anger that had just flared so unexpectedly still blazed inside him, and the vision of Ron and Hermione's shocked faces afforded him a sense of deep satisfaction.

_Serve them right, _he thought. _Why can't they give it a rest?_

Bickering all the time… it felt enough to drive _anyone _up the wall; already he was beginning to feel _overwhelmed, _and with the thought of having to face that Umbridge woman later this afternoon… it was as though everything and everyone was scraping at a very impatient part of him.

Harry spent the rest of the lunch hour sitting alone underneath the trapdoor at the top of North Tower, and consequently he was the first to ascend the silver ladder that led to Sibyll Trelawney's classroom when the bell rang.

Ron emerged from the trapdoor, looked around carefully, spotted Harry and made directly for him, or as directly as he could while having to wend his way between tables, chairs, and overstuffed poufs.

"Hermione and me have stopped arguing," he said, sitting down beside Harry.

"Good," grunted Harry.

"But Hermione says she thinks it would be nice if you stopped taking out your temper on us," said Ron.

"I'm not—"

"I'm just passing on the message," said Ron, talking over him. "But I reckon she's right. It's not our fault how Seamus and Snape treat you."

"I never said it—"

"Good day," said Professor Trelawney in her usual misty, dreamy voice, and Harry broke off, feeling both annoyed and slightly ashamed of himself again.

* * *

Later in the day, when they entered the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom for their last class, Professor Umbridge was already seated at the teacher's desk, wearing the fluffy pink cardigan of the night before and the black velvet bow on top of her head. Harry was again reminded forcibly of a large fly perched unwisely on top of an even larger toad.

"Well, good afternoon!" she said when finally the whole class had sat down. A few people mumbled a low "_Good afternoon,"_ in reply.

Professor Umbridge's smile did not disappear but there was something eerie about the way she blinked at them when she said, "That won't do, now, will it? I should like you, please, to reply '_Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge.'_ One more time, please. Good afternoon, class!"

"Good afternoon, Professor Umbridge," they chanted back at her, while looking at each other mildly bewildered.

"There, now," said Professor Umbridge sweetly. "That wasn't too difficult, was it? Wands away and quills out, please."

As they shoved their wands back inside their bags, many of the class exchanged gloomy looks; they had already suffered through Binn's droning voice in first period—the order "wands away" had never yet been followed by a lesson they had found interesting.

And true to expectation, Professor Umbridge opened her handbag, extracted her own wand and tapped the blackboard sharply with it; words appeared on the board at once:

Defense Against the Dark Arts  
A Return to Basic Principles.

"Your teaching in this subject has been rather disruptive and fragmented, hasn't it?" stated Professor Umbridge, turning to face the class with her hands clasped neatly in front of her. "The constant change of teachers, many of whom do not seem to have followed any Ministry-approved curriculum, has unfortunately resulted in your being far below the standard we would expect to see in your O.W.L. year."

She rapped the blackboard again; the first message vanished and was replaced by:

Course aims:

Understanding the principles underlying defensive magic.

Learning to recognize situations in which defensive magic can legally be used.

Placing the use of defensive magic in a context for practical use.

"We will be following a carefully structured, theory-centered, Ministry-approved course of defensive magic this year. Copy these aims down, please," and for a couple of minutes the room was full of the sound of scratching quills on parchment. When everyone had copied down Professor Umbridge's three course aims she said, "Has everybody got a copy of _Defensive Magical Theory _by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

There was a dull murmur of assent throughout the class.

"I think we'll try that again," said Professor Umbridge. "When I ask you a question, I should like you to reply '_Yes, Professor Umbridge,'_ or '_No, Professor Umbridge.'_ So—has everyone got a copy of Defensive Magical Theory by Wilbert Slinkhard?"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge," rang through the room.

"Good," said Professor Umbridge. "I should like you to turn to page five and read chapter one, '_Basics for Beginners'. _There will be no need to talk."

She then left the blackboard and settled herself in the chair behind the teacher's desk, observing them all with those pouchy toad's eyes.

However, less than ten minutes passed before Harry felt his concentration sliding away from him when—and to his immense surprise, enough to shake him out of his torpor—he turned to see that Hermione had not even opened her copy of _Defensive Magical Theory_.

Rather, she was staring quite fixatedly at Professor Umbridge with her hand in the air.

Harry looked at her with his brows knitted together, but she merely shook her head slightly, not about to answer questions as she continued to stare at Professor Umbridge, who looked just as resolutely in another direction. After several more minutes had passed, Harry found that he was not the only one watching Hermione.

The chapter they had been instructed to read was so tedious that more and more people were choosing to watch Hermione's mute attempt to catch Professor Umbridge's eye than to struggle on with Basics for Beginners. When more than half the class were staring at Hermione rather than at their books, then Professor Umbridge decided to look at her as though she had only just noticed.

"Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?" she asked Hermione.

"Not about the chapter, no,"

"Well, we're reading just now," said Professor Umbridge, showing her small, pointed teeth. "If you have other queries we can deal with them at the end of class."

"No, actually I've got a query about your course aims," said Hermione.

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, "And your name is—?"

"Hermione Granger."

"Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them carefully," said Professor Umbridge in a voice of determined sweetness.

"But they don't, Professor," said Hermione bluntly. "There's nothing written up there about actually _using _defensive spells."

Harry's head snapped to to the blackboard, where many others also frowned at the three course aims still written in chalk.

_"Using… _defensive spells?" Professor Umbridge repeated with a little laugh. "Why, I can't imagine any situation arising in my classroom that would require you to _use _a defensive spell, Miss Granger. You surely aren't expecting to be attacked during class?"

"Wait, we're not going to use magic?" Ron interjected, loudly.

"Students must raise their hands when they wish to speak in my class, Mr. — ?"

"Weasley," said Ron, thrusting his hand into the air. Professor Umbridge, smiling still more widely, turned her back on him, but Harry and Hermione immediately raised their hands too.

Her pouchy eyes lingered on him for a moment before she chose to address Hermione.

"Yes, Miss Granger? You wanted to ask something else?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "Surely the whole point of Defense Against the Dark Arts is to practice defensive spells?"

"Are you a Ministry-trained educational expert, Miss Granger?" asked Professor Umbridge in her falsely sweet voice.

"No, but—"

"Well then, I'm afraid you are not qualified to decide what the '_whole point' _of any class is. Wizards much older and cleverer than you have devised our new program of study. You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—"

"What use is that?" said Harry loudly. "If we're going to be attacked it won't be in a—"

"Hand, Mr. Potter!" sang Professor Umbridge. Harry thrust his fist in the air. Professor Umbridge promptly turned away from him again, but now several other people had their hands up too.

"And your name is?" Professor Umbridge said to Dean.

"Dean Thomas."

"Well, Mr. Thomas?"

"Well, it's like Harry said, isn't it?" said Dean. "If we're going to be attacked, it won't be risk-free—"

"I repeat," said Professor Umbridge, smiling in a very irritating fashion at Dean, "do you expect to be attacked during my classes?"

"But it isn't about _expecting _an attack, isn't it—"

"I do not wish to criticize the way things have been run in this school," she said, talking over him with an unconvincing smile that stretched her wide mouth, "But you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, very irresponsible indeed—not to mention," she gave a nasty little laugh, "Extremely dangerous half-breeds."

"If you mean _Professor _Lupin," piped up Harry angrily, among the other small noises of irritation within the class, "He was the best we ever—"

"_Hand, _Mr. Potter! As I was saying—you have been frightened into believing that you are likely to meet Dark attacks every other day—"

"No we haven't," Hermione said, "we just—"

"Your hand is not _up! _Miss Granger!" Looking determined as ever, Hermione put up her hand while Professor Umbridge turned away from her, "It is my understanding that my predecessor not only performed illegal curses in front of you but he actually performed them on you—"

"Well, he turned out to be a maniac, didn't he?" said Seamus suddenly and hotly. "Mind you, we still learned loads more than you're planni—"

"Your hand is not UP!" trilled Professor Umbridge, not even bothering to ask for his name. "Now, it is the view of the Ministry that theoretical knowledge will be more than sufficient to get you through your examination, which, after all, is what school is all about. Yes?" she added, staring at Parvati, whose hand had just shot up.

"Parvati Patil—" she said quickly— "But isn't there a practical bit in our Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L.? Aren't we supposed to show that we can actually do the countercurses and things?"

"As long as you have studied the theory hard enough, there is no reason why you should not be able to perform the spells under carefully controlled examination conditions," said Professor Umbridge dismissively.

"Without ever practicing them before?" said Parvati incredulously. "Are you telling us that the first time we'll get to do the spells will be _during _our exam?"

"I repeat, as long as you have studied the theory hard enough—"

"And what good is theory going to be in the _real _world?" said Harry loudly, his fist in the air and not willing to be ignored again. Professor Umbridge looked up.

"This is school, Mr. Potter, not the _real _world," she said softly.

"So we're not supposed to be prepared for what's waiting out there?"

"There is nothing waiting out there, Mr. Potter."

"Oh yeah?" said Harry. His temper, which seemed to have been bubbling just beneath the surface all day, was reaching boiling point.

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" inquired Professor Umbridge in a horribly honeyed voice.

"Hmm, let's think…" said Harry in a mock thoughtful voice, "maybe _Lord Voldemort?" _

Ron gasped while behind him Lavender Brown uttered a little scream and Neville slipped sideways off his stool. Professor Umbridge, however, did not flinch. She was staring at Harry with a grimly satisfied expression on her face.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr. Potter," she said quite simply. The classroom was silent and still, now. All the hands that had been raised just as quickly shot down and everyone was staring at either Umbridge or Harry.

"Now, let me make a few things quite _plain."_ Professor Umbridge stood up and leaned toward them, her stubby-fingered hands splayed on her desk.

"You have been told that a certain Dark wizard has returned from the dead—"

"He was never dead," said Harry angrily, "but yeah! He's returned!"

"Mr.-Potter-you-have-already-lost-your-House-ten-points-do-not-make-matters-worse-for-yourself," said Professor Umbridge in one breath without looking at him. "As I was saying, you have been informed that a certain Dark wizard is at large once again… This is a lie—"

"It is NOT a lie!" said Harry. "I saw him, I fought him!"

"Detention, Mr. Potter!" said Professor Umbridge triumphantly. "Tomorrow evening. Five o'clock. My office."

She whirled to address the class once more, "I repeat, this is a lie—the Ministry of Magic guarantees that you are not in danger from any Dark wizard and if you are still worried, by all means come and see me outside class hours. If someone is alarming you with fibs about reborn Dark wizards, I would like to hear about it because I am here to help and I am your _friend,"_ she simpered, flashing a dangerous smile. As she continued, Harry could not keep himself from breathing harder and harder, maddened by the eeriness of her smile and her eyes—... how she seemed like she wholeheartedly believed in **everything **she was saying. There was no play, there was no hesitation.

The Ministry sent propaganda, indoctrination! Not a _spy. _

As Umbridge sat down behind her desk once more, Harry slowly stood up, catching the eye of everyone who promptly gaped at him; Seamus looking half-scared, half-fascinated.

"Harry, no!" Hermione whispered in a warning voice. She reached to tug at his sleeve but Harry jerked his arm out of her reach.

"So, according to you, Cedric Diggory and I came out of that maze, bruised and battered because of a _lie?_ He was unconscious for nothing—?" Harry asked, his voice shaking. There was a collective intake of breath from the class, for none of them, apart from Ron and Hermione, had ever heard Harry talk about what had happened on the night where Cedric had been dead for three minutes. Professor Umbridge, who had raised her eyes and stared at him without a trace of a fake smile on her face.

"Sit down, Mr Potter, there was no one with you to witness anything," she said coldly. "It is likely than less terrible and more _logical _things could have happened than what you and your friend suggest—"

"_Pardon?"_

"Perhaps one of his spells went wrong! Or you knocked him yourself—there is nothing to prove that any of what you're saying is true, sit down, Mr Potter—"

"SO! You think I did that to him?!" Harry bellowed, relishing in the fact that he was talking over her, "You THINK that we did this to _OURSELVES?!" _

"ENOUGH! Sit down, Mr Potter!" Umbridge snarled, momentarily dropping her facade as Harry could feel himself shaking and sick; just _sick. _

Why the absolute **fuck **was he here, right now? And for what reason did this woman come here besides to taunt and prod them, to make him the circus spectacle outside the tent; it had felt like he had screamed it enough times inside his head that perhaps some god _had _to take into account but—

I DIDN'T WANT THIS.

I DIDN'T ASK FOR IT.

Was he not enough of a broken gramophone? A marionette whose strings had dulled through the many hands that have handled and played with him in routine? It felt as though every year, some outside force had come up with something new; something to break his spirit and it was damning to realize that there was something broken inside him—that there was something barbed poking at him with the saw-edged end, spurring on his blood til it become so _dark _that he did not want it spilling out,

Not here.

He didn't want to talk to anyone but Cedric about it—_**couldn't **_talk to anyone but Cedric about it—but he could feel all of the thirty-something eagerly, listening classmates ogling at him; their eyes burning into all his body like bullet-holes, Umbridge's _shitty _voice and intonations snaking and breathing down his neck—

_Just say it, _**say it. **

Fine.

"VOLDEMORT WAS THERE—!" he said summoning something rough and unfamiliar in his voice, raw as he shouted that it made even his friends _flinch— _ "AND YOU KNOW IT."

Silence befell the class, but this time it mixed with Harry's heavy breath while Professor Umbridge's face remained, quite blank. For a moment he thought she was going to scream back at him. But then, in her softest, most sickenly sweet girlish voice, "Come here, Mr. Potter, dear," she said.

He kicked his chair aside, strode around Ron and Hermione and up to the teacher's desk. He could feel the rest of the class holding its breath, but he felt so enraged he did not care what happened next.

Professor Umbridge pulled a small roll of pink parchment out of her handbag, stretched it out on the desk, dipped her quill into a bottle of ink, and started scribbling, hunched over so that Harry could not see what she was writing.

Nobody spoke.

After a minute or so she rolled up the parchment and tapped it with her wand; it sealed itself seamlessly so that he could not open it.

"Take this to Professor McGonagall, dear," said Professor Umbridge, holding out the note to him. He took it from her without saying a word and left the room, not even looking back at Ron and Hermione, and slamming the classroom door shut behind him.

Harry could never really visualize Muggle metaphors when he read them, but in this instance he felt that he was very close to the one about seeing **red.**

He walked fast along the corridor, the note to McGonagall clutched tight in his hand. Even when he slapped right into Peeves, Harry did not even spare him a second glance when he followed, singing a rude song—and simply continued stomping through the empty hallways, and swearing inside his head, over and over and over and over and over and over again—_I didn't want this! I didn't ask for this!_ When would they figure that out? When would someone find or re-discover, in this vast world pit against him, a magic out?

Before Harry could reach McGonagall's office door, he faltered at the last corner and collapsed to his knees; unable to cry, or wail though he felt something seize inside, he only wanted, with every inch of his arms and legs, to disappear and leave his uniform in a heap on the stone floor.

There was nothing inside him but a heart that throbbed with suffocating rage. A fury that clogged each artery so much so that Harry felt like the lid of some cheap boiling pot, that threatened to explode.

_Merlin,_ it was only the first day.


	27. Extra: Thief

Harry sat in the chair, clenching his jaw in a way that was nowhere near, helping his headache, as he watched Professor McGonagall read Umbridge's note with very pursed lips.

"Well?" she said, rounding on him. "Is this true?"

"Is _what _true—" Harry asked rather more aggressively than intended— "Professor?" he added in an attempt to sound more polite.

"Is it true that you _shouted _at Professor Umbridge?"

"...Yes," said Harry.

"You called her a _liar?" _

"_Yes." _His headache was getting worse now.

"You told her that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back?"

"Yes."

Professor McGonagall sat down behind her desk, frowning at Harry. Then she said, "Have a biscuit, Potter."

"Have—what?"

"Have a biscuit," she repeated impatiently, indicating a tartan tin of cookies lying on top of one of the piles of papers on her desk. There had been a previous occasion when Harry, expecting to be caned by Professor McGonagall, had instead been appointed by her to the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And as he stood up and helped himself to a Ginger Newt, he found that he was feeling just as confused and wrongfooted as he had done on that very occasion.

Professor McGonagall set down Umbridge's note and did not ask him to sit back down. Instead she took the glasses from her face and very shakily placed them on top of her head, looking at Harry very seriously.

"Potter, you need to be careful," she said. Harry paused on his mouthful of Ginger Newt and stared at her, stunned at how low her tone of voice reached; anxious and almost softer than the way he was used to—"Misbehavior in Dolores Umbridge's class could cost you much more than House points and a detention."

Harry made sure that he swallowed the Ginger Newt down before he spoke, "Professor, she looked like she _wanted _me to get angry."

"It is most likely that she did," muttered Professor McGonagall venomously, though not at all toward Harry, "You know where she comes from, you must know to whom she is reporting."

Harry chewed and silently scowled at the floor.

"It says here she's given you detention every evening this week, starting tomorrow," Professor McGonagall said, looking down at Umbridge's note again.

"_Every _evening?!" Harry repeated, horrified. "But, Professor, couldn't you—?"

"I cannot," said Professor McGonagall flatly.

"But she was the one who said—!"

"Potter, use your common sense!" she said with an abrupt return to her usual manner. "For your own sake, and that of Cedric!"

Harry immediately closed his mouth but could physically feel the steam letting out through his nose, "So I just _let _her and the Prophet spread lies about us?"

"She is your teacher and retains every right to give you detention. You will go to her room at five o'clock tomorrow for the first one."

"But I was telling the truth!" said Harry, outraged. "Voldemort's back, _you _know he is, _Professor Dumbledore _knows he is—"

"For heaven's sake!" said Professor McGonagall, straightening her glasses angrily—she had winced horribly when he had used Voldemort's name—"Do you really think this is about truth or lies? It's about keeping your head down and your temper under control!"

She stood up, nostrils wide and mouth very thin, and he stood too.

"Have another biscuit," she said irritably, thrusting the tin at him.

"No, thanks," said Harry coldly.

"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped. And so he took one, biting it angrily before suddenly he came to a realization—

"Did I hurt him again?"

"Pardon?"

"Did I hurt Cedric—" Harry said, suddenly looking very ragged—"Did I hurt him with this… outburst?"

"Yes," she said, suddenly looking very thoughtful, "Yes, it may be possible."

Harry sighed. He scratched the back his head and flung himself down in the seat with a face held just as tight as his teachers in front of him.

"Mr Diggory is not delicate, you know—"

"I know!" Harry said, immediately regretting that he had talked over her, "Sorry—_I know."_

"He's had all the opportunity to betray us, and you..."

"What are you talking about?"

Professor McGonagall watched him closely.

"His return to being a Prefect and Hufflepuff's Quidditch Captain would have been instituted easily if he had just agreed to publicly renouncing you," she could barely hide her contempt, "Professor Umbridge was rather upfront about it being in whatever letters we sent out to him."

"Oh," Harry said, in soft surprise. _Oh. _

That's why he was angry that first night.

Harry raised his head as the sound of the bell rang for the end of the period, and overhead he could hear the elephantine sounds of hundreds of students on the move. Silently, Professor McGonagall waved her hand and pointed him out the open door of her office.

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said, standing up. He leant down to reach for his bag but then realized that he had left it in the classroom. _Drat. _

"Potter?"

"Hm?" he swung around to see that McGonagall had faced away, the back of her chair leaning against the desk.

"It would be a shame if someone took the tin without my knowing," she said, not turning back. A few seconds of silence passed before loud chatter and whoops of celebration began, reverberating in the hallway. Then she heard the door to her office close—followed by the familiar rattle of a Ginger Newt jar, as well.


	28. I Must Not Tell Lies (I)

Harry walked up the stairs with a headache brewing, and a cookie tin tucked underneath his arm.

"You know apparently, he reckons that he and Diggory duelled with You-Know-Who…"

"Oh come off it…"

"Points for consistency though,"

"I thought they were joking last year, who does he think he's kidding?"

"Pur-_ lease…" _

Even by Hogwarts' usual standards, news travelled quick and far and the whispers that gathered around him pricked invasive, like a multitude of insect legs on his body. Harry knew that he could not let them goad him into further argument and so, he muscled through the hallways without snapping back. But he could not keep the blood from rushing to his face—it was a red that rivaled phoenix feathers and the inside of Ron's tiny room on The Burrow's fifth floor, and it did not fade by the time he reached the top of the staircase and stood in front of the Fat Lady's portrait.

"Mimbulus mimbletonia," he said, tentatively. She stopped admiring a glass goblet and looked to him with a raised eyebrow.

"Shouldn't you be at dinner?"

"Mimbulus. _ Mimbletonia." _ Harry repeated, firmer this time, with gritted teeth. The Fat Lady made a face and promptly swung open while he barged through, not bothering to explain to her that avoiding dinner was _ precisely _the reason why he was here in the first place.

The common room was completely empty except for Crookshanks, who dozed slung over top of the House notice board. There were abandoned ink pots and parchments of homework left on tables, along with the occasional sweater and suspiciously wet pair of socks that were left piled in the corner, but other than these signs—along the roaring fire puffing smoke up the chimney—the common room looked perfectly and _ safely _devoid of life.

Harry jumped and landed in the couch, shucking off his cloak and shoes and sticking his hand into McGonagall's cookie tin. The solitude was what he needed, it was obvious that he would have to cool down; if he could barely contain himself just walking through the hallways, he couldn't imagine being able to sit silently through dinner, where a thousand conversations could tip his temper to its boiling point.

He had yet to even go back and grab his bag—though by now, he felt content to just leave it within the classroom—he knew that at this moment he wouldn't be able to endure even a percent of a possibility that… _ that woman _would be there; and that she would be waiting in the doorway with a smug face, ready to wrap this horrid day with a bow.

And while Harry chewed over Umbridge, staring deeply into the hearth of the fireplace, he heard the Fat Lady trill as her portrait swung open once more_ . _

_ "Talk some sense into your friend, he'll go positively ill without dinner!" _

Two heads—a mess of brown hair and a ginger flop—popped up in the corner of his eye before he suddenly felt two people leap and crash down beside him, their impact billowing dust from the cushions.

"Oh thank goodness, you're here!" Hermione said, pinching her nose.

Ron waved at the dust-filled air, coughing behind his other hand, "Yeah we were waiting for _ ages _at the Hall and—hold on, where'd you get those cookies from?"

"Never mind that! Harry, we have your bag and some food if you—no, proper food, Ronald—if you're feeling hungry,"

"Why aren' 'ou guysh at di'er?" interrupted Harry, mouth already full.

"We were at dinner!" Ron said. He then made a delighted noise when Harry placed the cookie tin in his lap. "But you didn't come so we just stuffed shit into our bags and robes and—"

"Ron!"

"—Stuffed _ things _into our bags and robes and came up here, thinking that you wouldn't be anywhere else," Ron said, correcting himself.

"We were really worried about you after class but… oh let's just eat first! I'm starving!"

As Harry forced his cookie down, he watched as Hermione took out tissues from her pocket and flattened them against the carpet before she turned her bag upside down and began to shake it directly overhead. Initially flummoxed at the sound of tinkling metal and porcelain, he could not believe his eyes as an intact shepherd's pie, a dozen legs of chicken, separate bowls of fruit and rice, a loaf of bread, biscuits, steak, some mutton chops and a couple of slices of a casserole complete with plates and three sets of cutlery all came spilling out; tumbling to the floor like it had fallen down some sort of chute.

Hermione looked over the food and back to her friends anxiously, "I thought that a bowl of soup or salad might spill so I didn't take any," she murmured. Harry could only stare back at her, open-mouthed while Ron sheepishly took out the three meagre slices of pie from his own pockets.

"I-I don't think _ a missing bowl of soup _ is really the thing to be concerned about here," Harry stammered, "Did you just… _ steal _the plates? How did your bag even—what the…"

"I've been reading ahead in charms… it's alright, I'll return everything…" Hermione said distractedly, "We'll need to eat quickly though, I don't want any of the first-years coming in and getting inspired from their _ prefects _doing this—"

"Hermione," Ron said, breathlessly, "I've told you this before and I'll probably say it many more times but you are _ brilliant." _

"Seconded," said Harry. Hermione beamed at them, pleased, and they quickly dug in.

When they had finished and cleaned up, Harry, Ron and Hermione collected their school-bags from a corner and moved a large cedar table to the couch by the fireplace. Not long after, the Fat Lady swung open again, and the first few clusters of people who came back from dinner began to come through the common room.

Harry kept his face down and averted the portrait-hole, but he could only avoid so many of the stares, as the clusters became a flow of students all spending more than a moment glancing in his direction.

"Just ignore them," Ron muttered, he and Hermione seemed to permanently glare when they looked up.

Harry shook his head, clenching his teeth as it throbbed dully, "I can't believe people already _ know," _

"Yeah. Only because Malfoy was there to speed up the rumors,"

"Ugh."

As they worked, Harry spared them the details of his trip to McGonagall's office and mentioned only that he had been punished in daily detentions with Umbridge starting the next day. At once Ron deflated into the rug; almost letting his ink pot spill.

"It's not _ that _ bad," said Harry, but Ron, in his dramatic disassociation could still perfectly read his weak tone and the pallor of his face that yes; _ yes it is that _ ** _bad._ **

"How can Dumbledore have let this happen?" Hermione cried suddenly, making Harry and Ron jump. Crookshanks leapt off her, looking affronted as she began to pound the arm of the couch in fury, so that bits of stuffing leaked out of the holes. "How can he let that terrible woman teach us? And in our O.W.L. year too!"

"Well, we've never had great Defense Against the Dark Arts teachers, have we?" said Harry, a little annoyed that Hermione had nothing else to say. "You know what it's like, Hagrid told us, nobody wants the job, they say it's jinxed."

"Yes, but to employ someone who's actually _ refusing _to let us do magic! What's Dumbledore playing at?"

"And she's trying to get people to spy for her," said Ron darkly. "Remember when she said she wanted us to come and tell her if we hear anyone saying You-Know-Who's back?"

"Of course she's here to spy on us all, that's obvious, why else would Fudge have wanted her to come?" snapped Hermione.

"Don't start arguing again," said Harry wearily, as Ron opened his mouth to retaliate. "Can't we just… Let's just do that homework, get it out of the way…"

But before Harry could dip his quill into ink, a rather loud commotion of voices dragged their attention to the far corner of the room where Fred, George, and Lee Jordan were now sitting at the centre of a knot made up with innocent-looking first years, all of whom were chewing something that seemed to have come out of a large paper bag that Fred was holding.

"_ Oh _no, I'm sorry, they've gone too far," Hermione said. She stood up, looking very determined. "Come on, Ron."

"I—what?" said Ron, plainly playing for time. "No—come on, Hermione—we can't tell them off for giving out _ sweets…" _

"You know perfectly well that those _ 'sweets' _are bits of Nosebleed Nougat or—or Puking Pastilles or—"

"Fainting Fancies?" Harry suggested quietly. Ron didn't have time to shoot him a look as one by one, as though hit over the heads with invisible mallets, the first years slumped unconscious in their seats.

Some slid right onto the floor while others merely hung over the arms of their chairs, tongues lolling out and causing most of those who watched to laugh hysterically; Hermione, however, squared her shoulders and marched directly over to where Fred and George stood with their clipboards, closely observing the unconscious first years.

Ron rose halfway out of his chair and hovered uncertainly for a moment or two, muttering a soft, _ "Oh no." _Fred seemed to say something that made all their onlookers laugh at Hermione, who pushed her to the middle of the ring, guarding that first-years as they came to.

However, she grabbed Fred's clipboard and full paper bag and said, in a voice loud enough to hear from across the room, "I can't stop you from eating these yourselves but if you keep testing on the first-years, I will _ write _to your mother, I swear it!"

Fred and George stared at her, petrified with fear—almost as if Hermione had morphed into a gorgon right in front of them—and with a last threatening look, she thrust Fred's clipboard and the bag of Fancies back into his arms and stalked back to her chair by the fire.

"Thank you for your support, Ron," she said acidly.

"You handled it fine by yourself," he mumbled back. He sank as low in his chair as his lanky frame permitted, with his nose roughly level with his knees.

"We're supposed to be a team!"

_ "I know, _ I'm sorry," Ron moaned, timidly. Hermione stared edgily down at her blank piece of parchment for a few seconds.

"Oh, it's no good, I can't concentrate now. I'm going to bed."

She then wrenched her bag open and pulled out two misshapen woolly objects, placed them carefully on a table by the fireplace, covered them with a few screwed-up bits of parchment and a broken quill, and stood back to admire the effect.

"They're hats for house-elves," she said, without even looking at Harry and Ron, and now stuffing her books back into her bag. "I did them over the summer. I'm a really slow knitter without magic, but now I'm back at school I should be able to make lots more."

"You're leaving out hats for the house-elves?" said Ron slowly. "And you're covering them up with rubbish first?"

"So what?" said Hermione defiantly, swinging her bag onto her back.

"That's not on," said Ron, annoyed. "You're trying to trick them into picking up the hats. You're setting them free when they might not want to-"

"Of course they want to be free!" said Hermione at once, though her face was turning pink.

"I didn't finish, that's not what I was trying to say!"

"I don't _ care. _ Don't you dare touch those hats, Ron!" she said.

Ron waited until she had disappeared through the door to the girls' dormitories, then turned to Harry, "Look, I know what she's meaning to do but I swear to-to... Hagrid's three-headed dog! This is against all the rules of liberation and bobs she's been on about, right?"

"Erm… A bit? I don't know…" said Harry hesitantly, he was not sure what Ron was talking about but he realized that Hermione had probably given him an earful before he had arrived at Grimmauld. Ron shook his head, and cleared the crumpled parchment from the hats, throwing each piece into the fireplace.

"They should at least see what they're picking up," he said firmly. He turned back to Harry once more, but this time in worry, "By the way, are you alright? You look—no offence mate—but you look _ bad." _

Harry shook his head, noticing as he did so that the ache in his right temple was getting worse; just thinking about reading or writing a long essay on the properties of moonstone began to summon a pain that stabbed at him sharply.

So, knowing perfectly well that he would regret not finishing his homework when the morning would come, he piled his books back into his bag.

"Let's go to bed."

They passed Seamus on the way to the door leading to the dormitories, but Harry did not look at him. He had a fleeting impression that Seamus had opened his mouth to speak but sped up, reaching the soothing silence of the stone spiral staircase without having to endure any more provocation.

"D'you think he'll ever get sick of making fun of me?" he asked Ron, glumly.

"He'll see, Harry. Eventually," said Ron, but even he did not sound very hopeful.

As Harry walked into the dormitory and said his goodnights to Ron and Neville—who in turn was crooning "Goodnight" to his plants—he sank into his bed, trying not to wince as his head throbbed terribly and yet all he could think about was whether Cedric had noticed his absence during dinner.

Did he have to endure the same ridiculing as well?

The whispers had grown bolder in the last twelve hours.

And lot less friendly.

Harry flinched as pain piled at the front of his forehead.

_ Go to sleep, _ he thought, and he clenched his teeth, _ go to sleep and we can see him tomorrow—go to sleep and we can see him tomorrow—go to sleep… go to sleep… _

Harry turned in bed, pressing his pillow around his head like a bandage and repeating the thought over and over and over, until, he could think no more.

* * *

The next day, as soon as he woke, Harry threw his robes over his body and rushed downstairs; dodging Seamus a second time and running to the common room where to his dismay—Harry found his friends in the beginnings of a row.

_ "You _took the rubbish off the hats?!" Hermione demanded, her eyes flared over her knitted garments which lay, untouched on the table.

"Only because of all people, _ you _shouldn't be making choices for the elves! And like hell they were hats! They looked more like woolly bladders!" Ron replied cuttingly. But before Hermione could make a scathing reply, Harry forced his head down and escaped to the Grand Staircase, trudging toward the Great Hall by himself.

From the sunbeams that illuminated the castle's moving stairways, it looked like another grand autumn day as the painted figures in their hung portraits danced and whirled through their frames, as though fallen leaves propelled by short bursts of gust. Some of the trees in the paintings had actually shed and browned golden while high-rising above, around about the castles seventh and sixth floor, some ghosts drifted through the walls with scarves wrapped around their necks.

It was a less whimsical experience on the ground however as Harry ignored the gawkers that followed him down, pushing through crowds and the giggles that disappeared around corners as he skipped four steps to two down the Grand Staircase.

One particular group of sixth-years loitering by the entrance hall erupted with snide laughter when he passed, an unmistakable flash of sickly green badges and patches glinting from the front of their robes. But—like he wasn't bothered at all that _ 'POTTER STINKS' _had made its way back through school—Harry kept his eyes glued forward, playing deaf to their nasal voices as they echoed around him and forcing himself to go straight to the Great Hall; he had just reached the giant arched doorway when a much kinder voice rang out from behind him, "Hey, Harry!"

It was Cho, waving at him; her hair longer, her skin tanner that it had been before summer. And while Harry grinned and waved back at her, he felt his stomach drop from a familiar sensation of disappointment, it was _ only _Cho and despite it everything that was simply—wait.

_ What? _

Cho walked up to him, radiant eyes pushing into crescents, "Hi Harry!"

Harry blinked, and the pit in his stomach disappeared.

This was an incredible off-day.

"Hi Cho," he said, trying to muster up another smile. _ At least I'm not covered in Stinksap this time! _

Cho seemed to be thinking along the same lines, "You got that stuff off, then?"

"Yeah," said Harry suddenly grinning with more ease, as though the memory of their last meeting was actually funny as opposed to mortifying. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm good! Slowly getting back into the routine and all that, you know," Cho said, smiling prettily. Harry nodded, he craned his neck and was surprised to find that none of her friends were waiting behind or sitting down at a table and staring at them.

It was odd that she was on her own again; last year she had been almost always surrounded by a gang of girls giggling around her and Harry could almost feel the old agony of trying to get her by herself to ask her to the Yule Ball.

Absent-mindedly, he began to gesture and talk, "So did you… er… have a good summer?" he said, but in that instant, he wished he hadn't: something seemed to tauten in Cho's smile and, Harry suddenly recalled the face she made when she saw Cedric in their carriage.

"Oh, it was all right, you know, but… Cedric and I—he must've told you—we broke up during the summer," she said.

_ Rat brains. _

"Oh, I… sorry! Erm, I'm sorry, I didn't know. And.. sorry that, erm, it didn't work out…" said Harry, awkwardly. He was acutely aware that he had said sorry one too many times, and it surely sounded a little stupid.

"Did he not tell you?" she asked.

"Sort-of? I didn't want to ask really…" It was a meek kind-of lie but in truth there were many things that Harry wanted to ask—What happened? Who broke up with who, _ why— _but he realized that he wasn't too eager to hear any of those answers in this moment. And while he fidgeted for something else to say, Cho piped up, "Listen whatever Cedric might've said, it doesn't mean—"

"He didn't say anything." Harry said, immediately. "We don't, erm, we don't talk about those kinds of things so you don't have to worry,"

"Oh! Well I meant if he said anything _ bad… _I know that he wouldn't, but just in case…"

"Yeah, he wouldn't—and he didn't," Harry added, eyes momentarily drawn away by a familiar head of curls sitting at the end of a table. It was the boy that Cedric had been laughing with yesterday; he was alone. "He's had some rough days, but… I think he's doing okay for now."

"Right well… I'm glad you're looking good, Harry," Cho said, her voice thinning in a way that snapped Harry alert, "Take care of yourself… and of Cedric."

Automatically, Harry looked to her; feeling guilty.

"Erm, it's good seeing you Cho… you take care too," he said. She waved and walked away, and Harry groaned under his breath—_ What are you doing? _ came his nagging fourteen-year old voice, _ she was worried about you! _

_ I know, _ he told himself, _ I know. _

But he could feel a pendulum swing, ticking at the back of his head.  
There was something more pressing at hand, and he didn't have _ time _ for this, he needs to find _ Cedric _and so hurriedly—pressing down the questions to save for later—Harry walked to the end of the Hufflepuff table and tapped the curly-haired boy on the shoulder.

"Excuse me, hello! Sorry, my name is—"

"Harry Potter!" the boy looked to him with wide eyes, standing up so suddenly that Harry took an instinctive step back,

"Er—"

"Hidiyah look, Harry Potter's here!"

"And what would Harry Potter be wanting to do with you, hm?" said a girl, her head suddenly popping from behind.

"He's looking for Cedric—you're looking for Cedric, right?" the boy said, nodding eagerly back. Harry could not respond as his brain-circuited in surprise over how this gargantuan boy seemed to _ towered _over everyone else in the Great Hall.

"Mate, I think you're scaring him,"

"Oh _ rot, _ sorry, I keep forgetting…" the tall boy backed away.

"It's alright—! Erm, I don't mean to be rude," said Harry.

"Don't fret," said the girl, she tugged at the tall boy's sleeve, "Everyone's always wary during the first time—the way he acts, you'd think he's actually been raised by wolves or at least some _ very _excitable puppies—"

"Hush Hidiyah," the tall boy chided, and Harry briefly recollected that name on one of the letters Cedric sent at Grimmauld.

"You're Hidiyah?"

"That's me. And this is—"

"Right!" the tall boy said, sticking a hand out. Hidiyah gave a large sigh.

"You're... _ Right?" _ said Harry, uncertainly.

"Yeah," he grinned, "I'm Evan Wright!"

From the way Hidiyah had buried her face into her hand, Harry felt as though he had just become a victim to a long-running joke.

"Nice to meet you," he said, and to Evan's delight, they shook hands.

Evan Wright stuck out like a sore thumb in the midst of the Great Hall.

You would have to be extraordinarily resistant to school gossip (and admittedly, Harry often was) to not know about Hufflepuff's rumoured 'gentle giant', though Evan only reached around six foot and eight inches in height which was tiny; compared to that of Hagrid or Madame Maxine.

With warm dark skin, coiled hair and soft smile; Evan looked like he either belonged to fairytale picture books with lots of soft, hand-painted furry animals or one of Sirius's Muggle epics that depicted all sorts of gods and demigod heroes alike. However, with the grip of Evan's hand clamping down on his own; Harry felt as though he had confirmed the latter as a _ fact _ when he felt his hand crumple from a very sudden _ squeeze— _

"OW!"

"Oh Merlin's baggy fronts, Evan!" said Hidiyah, leaping up.

"Sorry! I always forget to not squeeze—!" Evan let go and began to trace a finger in the air, leaving lines of light that trailed behind, vivid, static; and drawing what looked very much like a rune.

Under his breath Evan muttered, _ "Enfizo!" _ and the lines gleamed; thin tendrils of vine spread like veins on Harry's hand, blooming with small white flowers that faded just as quickly as they were conjured, his pain falling away with them.

"Oh!" Harry breathed. He flexed his fingers, relieved. "Thank you!"

"Are your fingers in all of their sockets?" asked Hidiyah, bending over slightly.

"I didn't squeeze _ that _hard," Evan said, mildly offended. "Fingers don't even belong in sockets."

"Just making sure, Ev,"

Harry tried not to think about having possessed briefly broken fingers and turned to her, "It's fine, he didn't... err... it's fine. You're Hidiyah?"

"Hidiyah Khan," she said, lifting her hand out without looking away from Harry's hand, "Don't worry. No jokes or enough of a strength to make you feel worse,"

Harry awkwardly shook her hand with his left, and said, "It's nice to meet you."

He had not heard of Hidiyah Khan before this moment but if he had to hazard a guess, she probably preferred it that way. There was something about the way she moved that reminded Harry of water, deep water; immensity and vastness that only seemed 'empty' in theory. She was much smaller than Evan, bronze-skinned and with intelligent eyes that seemed to cut you open, her wide, pretty face scuffed by a small scar on her lip and what looked like green paint and patches of dirt on her cheeks. Wrapped around her head was a scarf the colour of deep gold and her fingers, Harry noted, held many criss-crossing white marks that trailed down to the curve of her palms.

"Neville's told me a lot about you from club and… oh, you're friends with Luna, too?" she said suddenly, her attention pointed toward his chest.

"Er—" Harry looked down where Hermione's upgraded S.P.E.W badge lay pinned to his robes— "..Yes?"

"Well then!" Hidiyah said, giving him an unexpected grin, "If you're looking for Cedric, he's still in the dorms but we can go and get him if you'd like—"

_ Brring! _

"—Or not."

Harry's heart sank as the sound of benches that screeched backward and chatter, surged around him.

_ "Rot, _ we still have to wake him up for class," said Evan, exasperatedly. Hidiyah ducked while he swung his bag across his shoulder, but Harry—who did not expect it—only felt a breeze brush just above the strays of his hair before realizing he was lucky not be lying eagle-spread on the floor.

"We'll tell Ced you were looking for him," Hidiyah said helpfully. Harry nodded.

"Thanks. It was really nice meeting you both," he said and he walked away, trying his best to not show the hunger or disappoint on his face.

* * *

As the day went on, frustration crept into Harry's fingers that fumbled and stiffened. He plodded through Charms and Transfiguration, struggling so much in Summoning and Vanishing objects that there wasn't a chance to even relish the absence of their regular Potions class.

Harry also began to get sick of his own name.

Every year above—including some particularly brave fourth and third-years—had begun to make a gimmick of shouting it at him like it was some bizarre, new rude word. It was possible that before fourth period was up, he had heard _ "Pottah Stinks!" _ more than a dozen times in all manners of voices that belonged to strangers, gossips and everything in between.  
He almost missed the previous poor attempts of subtlety; at least those left some space for him to feign ignorance. Now people just laughed loudly, even when Harry turned to stare at them venomously back.

"They're _ awful," _ Hermione said. She turned to her left and right, shooting glares just above each of Harry's shoulders.

"It's not too different from last year," Harry placed his hands on her shoulders and straightened her up as they walked forward.

"What are you talking about, they're acting like _ mongrels," _ Hermione glanced at him uneasily, "Do you think Cedric's handling it well?"

Harry sighed, "I haven't got a clue, Hermione."

When he swung by the hall for lunch, Harry caught neither Cedric's figure nor his laughter near the Hufflepuff table, in fact; he could not seem to find him anywhere in the castle, no matter how hard he looked, to and from all his classes. In the afternoon he followed Ron and Hermione to Care of Magical Creatures—the two maintaining a thirty-foot, diagonal distance since their argument in the morning—where it suddenly occurred to him that he had never thought to even ask Cedric about his subjects at Hogwarts or any of his interests in all the time they'd spent together during the summer and promptly—Harry's head started aching again.

His mood did not improve when he saw Professor Grubbly-Plank waiting for the class ten yards away Hagrid's front door, a long trestle table in front of her laden with many twigs, and it soured even further when she could not answer his question to Hagrid's whereabouts.

"You must know where he is, you've repla—substituted him!" Harry said.

"Never you mind," said Professor Grubbly-Plank repressively, which had been her attitude last time Hagrid had failed to turn up for a class too. She turned away while Harry sighed.

With a smirk spread all over his pointed face, Draco Malfoy sauntered past him, "Maybe, the stupid great oaf's got himself badly injured," he said in an undertone.

"Maybe you will, if you don't shut up," said Harry out of the side of his mouth.

"Maybe he's been messing with stuff that's _ too big _for him, if you get my drift," Malfoy said and he walked away, smirking over his shoulder at Harry, who then spent the entire lesson trying not to think about Cedric, Hagrid or how he suddenly felt very sick.

For his effort, he was rewarded when Hermione and Ron seemingly came to a truce to listen to his worries, though Professor Grubbly-Plank's twig—a creature called a Bowtruckle as he later found out—cut his hand twice and quickly dissipated any of the positivity he had allowed himself to feel in that moment.

When distantly over the grounds, the bell echoed; Harry marched off to Herbology with his hand wrapped in a handkerchief of Hermione's and Malfoy's derisive laughter still ringing in his ears.

"If he calls Hagrid a moron one more time…" snarled Harry.

"Harry, don't go picking fights with Malfoy, he's a prefect now." Hermione whispered, "He could make life difficult for you…"

"Wow, I wonder what it'd be like to have a difficult life?" said Harry sarcastically. Ron laughed, but Hermione only frowned as together, they traipsed across the vegetable patch, the sky above them unable to make up its mind whether it wanted to rain or not.

"I just wish Hagrid would hurry up and get back, that's all," said Harry in a low voice, as they reached the greenhouses. "And don't say that Grubbly-Plank woman's a better teacher!" he added threateningly.

"I wasn't going to," said Hermione calmly.

"Because she'll never be as good as Hagrid," said Harry firmly, fully aware that even though he had been cut and his mind occupied for most of the hour, he had just experienced an exemplary Care of Magical Creatures lesson and was thoroughly annoyed about it.

They waited as the door of the nearest greenhouse opened and some fourth years spilled out of it, including Ginny.

"Hi guys!" she said brightly as she passed. Beside her Luna Lovegood emerged, a smudge of earth on her nose and her hair tied in a knot on the top of her head. When she saw Harry, her prominent eyes seemed to bulge excitedly, and she made a beeline straight for him. Many of his classmates turned curiously to watch as Luna took a great breath and then said, without so much as a preliminary hello: "I believe He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back, and I believe you fought him and escaped from him."

"Er—right," said Harry awkwardly. Luna was wearing what looked like a pair of orange radishes for earrings, a fact that Parvati and Lavender seemed to have noticed, as they were both giggling and pointing at her earlobes.

"You can laugh!" Luna said, her voice rising, apparently under the impression that Parvati and Lavender were laughing at what she had said rather than what she was wearing.

"But people used to believe there were no such things as the Blibbering Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned Snorkack!"

"Well, they were right, weren't they?" said Hermione patiently. "There _ weren't _any such things as the Blibbering Humdinger or the Crumple-Horned Snorkack."

Luna gave her a wink and flounced away, radishes swinging madly. Parvati and Lavender were not the only ones hooting with laughter now, though a sharp look from Ginny shut most of them up. Ernie Macmillan then stepped up to them, with slightly puffed up chest.

"I want you to know, Potter," he said in a loud, carrying voice, "that it's not only weirdos who support you. I personally believe you one hundred percent. My family have always stood firm behind Dumbledore, and so do I."

"Er—thanks very much, Ernie," said Harry, taken aback but pleased. Ernie might be pompous on occasions like these, but Harry was in a mood to deeply appreciate a vote of confidence from somebody who was not wearing radishes in their ears (though he supposed, those were welcome too).

Ernie's words had certainly wiped the lingering smile from Lavender Brown's face and as he turned to talk to Ron and Hermione, Harry caught Seamus's expression flicker as well, from confusion to defiance. They continued onto to their Herbology lesson, where to nobody's surprise, Professor Sprout started their lesson by lecturing them about the importance of O. .  
Harry began to get an anxious, twisted feeling in his stomach every time he remembered how much homework he had to do, a feeling that worsened dramatically when Professor Sprout gave them yet another essay at the end of class. So tired and smelling strongly of dragon dung—Professor Sprout's preferred brand of fertilizer—the Gryffindors trooped back up to the castle, none of them talking very much; it had been another long day.

Stomachs rumbling, they headed straight for the Great Hall to scoff something down, while Harry wrestled with the thought of his first detention with Umbridge well on his mind. He had barely sat down at the table, however, when a loud and angry voice said, "Oy, Potter!"

"What now?" he muttered wearily, turning to face Angelina Johnson, who looked as though she was in a towering temper. Oh shi—

"I'll tell you _ 'what now'!" _ she said, marching straight up to him and poking him hard in the chest with her finger. "How come you've landed yourself in detention for five o'clock on Friday?"

Harry blinked once, twice before very slowly, he closed his eyes and sank his face against his palm, "Right. Keeper try-outs." he said.

"Now he remembers!" snarled Angelina. "Didn't I tell you I wanted to do a try-out with the whole team, and find someone who fitted in with everyone? Didn't I tell you I'd booked the Quidditch pitch specially? And now you've decided you're not going to be there!"

"I didn't _ 'decide' _not to be there!" said Harry, stung by the injustice of these words. "I got detention from that Umbridge woman, just because I told her the truth about You-Know-Who—"

"Well, you can just go straight to her and ask her to let you off on Friday," said Angelina fiercely, "And I don't care how you do it, tell her You-Know-Who's a figment of your imagination if you like, just make sure you're there!"

She then stormed away, leaving Harry, Hermione and Ron stunned at the table.

"Did… Did Oliver Wood die and possess her body?" Ron asked, a mix of awe and fear.

"Do you think Umbridge would even let you go on Friday, if you asked?" said Hermione.

"Probably not," Harry said grimly, "I'm just hoping she doesn't keep me too long this evening. You realize we've got to write three essays, practice Vanishing Spells for McGonagall, work out a countercharm for Flitwick, finish the Bowtruckle drawing and start that stupid dream diary for Trelawney?"

Ron groaned and for some reason glanced up at the ceiling, _ "And _it looks like it's going to rain."

"What's that got to do with our homework?" said Hermione, her eyebrows raised.

"Nothing," said Ron at once, his ears reddening. He turned to Harry and changed the topic, "But what'll you do? Are you going to ask her to let you off?"

Harry shoved a spoonful of mashed potato in his mouth and stood up.

"The scar on my head would sooner disappear," he said with a grimace. It was five til five.

* * *

Soft meows of a thousand hung pictures and paintings of cats filled the silence as Harry sat awkwardly in Umbridge's office, which had been painted pink and filled with cheap, gaudy furniture that stank of mildew and age. He hated that he could no longer see Lupin anywhere.

"You haven't given me any ink," he said, staring at the black quill in his hand. It was bewildering that he had only been given lines as punishment for their shouting match the other day.

"Oh, you won't need ink," said Professor Umbridge with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice. Harry felt something curdle inside his stomach.

It was bewildering that it was only _ lines. _ But Umbridge's pleasant demeanor, as if she knew a secret that he didn't, unsettled him—it felt like a hint to a bigger picture that he had yet to perceive.

Reluctantly Harry placed the point of the quill on the sheet of parchment in front of him and wrote: _ I must not tell lies. _

At first nothing happened. There was no ink in the quill so the parchment was only indented with the stroke of his words, and Harry couldn't understand. Did she think writing without ink would drive him mad?_ Would _he go mad if he did it enough times?

But then, something stabbed at his hand, and Harry let out a gasp of pain.

The sentence had appeared on the page in what appeared to be shining red ink, and horrifically, on the back of Harry's right hand; piercing and cut right into his skin as though traced there by a scalpel. He watched, breathing heavily, as the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth. As quickly as Harry sat straight in shock and gasped, he bent over the desk, clenching the quill at his hand again. From behind, he already knew that Umbridge was watching him, her wide, toadlike mouth probably stretched into a smile.

"Did you say something, dear?"

"Nothing," said Harry quietly. He looked back at the parchment and placed the quill upon it once more, wrote I must not tell lies, and felt the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second time; reaffirming that the words had been cut into his skin before once again they healed over seconds later.

Again and again Harry wrote the words on the parchment in what he soon came to realize was not ink, but his own blood. And again and again the words were cut into the back of his hand, healed, and then reappeared the next time he set quill to parchment; _ I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. _

Each stroke, each cut felt like an added degree to his temper; like an added storm cloud or skewer that Umbridge had personally screwed into his palm. But Harry clutched at the quill like nothing else and bit down the insides of his mouth so hard until they too, were too bleeding like his hand and he continued to write;_ I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. _

_ I Must. Not. Tell. Lies. _

Darkness fell outside Umbridge's window. Harry did not ask when he would be allowed to stop.

He did not even check his watch or pause longer than moving the paper up to write a new line.

He knew she was watching him for signs of weakness, and he was not going to show any, not even if he had to sit here all night, cutting open his own hand with this quill with nothing to show for it except the ghost of the pain and the memory of the searing and the hatred that coiled tense around his head.

"Come here," she said, after what seemed hours. Harry stood up, his ears suddenly open to the flow of sound, of purring and meowing and a grandfather clock that had been held at bay by his concentration. His hand hurt. The cut had healed but his skin looked stung red and raw, and it felt like he was still cutting into his hand, tracing I must not lie even though he had left the quill on the desk.

"Hand," she said. He extended it. She took it in her own. Harry repressed a shudder as she touched him with her thick, stubby fingers on which she wore a number of ugly, old rings.

"Tut, tut, I don't seem to have made much of an impression yet," she said, smiling. "Well, we'll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won't we? You may go. Keep the papers you've written on."

Harry grabbed his bag, the papers, and left her office without a word. The school was quite deserted; it was surely past midnight. He walked slowly through the castle and then, when he was quite surely several hallways and rooms away where she would not hear him, he screamed into the inside of his bag and ripped the blood-inked papers into shreds.


	29. I Must Not Tell Lies (II)

Harry fell straight into bed after his detention. Correction: he fell straight into bed after his _detentions. _

It would have been impressive to say that after two days he had grown used to the pain that seared through his right hand, or that Umbridge's pink-painted office and sneering smile had somehow become less unnerving throughout, but to his misfortune, no such progress could be reported.

Night after night, Harry found that he was too exhausted and furious to even _attempt_ his homework and so many of his waking hours were spent writing poor, cobbled-together essays and entries into his dream diary—even giving up lunch and dinner to finish drawing a picture of a Bowtruckle and practice charms. And while Harry did not go through this alone or hungry with Ron and Hermione by his side; what little comfort he could take from their time in the common room was soon spoiled when Angelina tracked him down and, on learning that he would not be able to attend Friday's Keeper try-outs, told him she was not at all impressed by his attitude and that she expected players who wished to remain on the team to put training before their other commitments.

"I'm in detention!" yelled Harry as she stalked away. "D'you think I'd rather be stuck with that old toad and _not_ play Quidditch?!"

"At least it's only lines," Hermione whispered consolingly. "It's not as if it's a dreadful punishment, really…"

"Yeah imagine if she actually banned you from Quidditch or something…" Ron added. Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded as he sank back into the couch. No one knew about the true nature of his detentions. And he had yet to come to the actual decision of telling someone, _anyone, _for fear of the looks of horror that would dawn on their faces, or worse, the inevitable tide of pity that could not be stomached down. In that same line of thought, he also almost didn't want to find Cedric either.  
Harry could not fathom what sort of sad or shocked face Cedric would make when—not 'if' but _when—_he would find out and wanted to avoid being the cause, though thankfully, the endeavour of actually encountering him seemed to be going just as well as everything else.

Hermione jumped as Ron suddenly threw his head back and groaned.

"I can't believe how much homework we've got," he said miserably. Harry, who was bent over labelling the Bowtruckle diagram, rest his head lightly against the table in muffled agreement.

"Well, why didn't you do any last night?" Hermione asked, turning to Ron, "Where were you anyway?"

"I was… I fancied a walk," said Ron shiftily, and then he yawned.

Harry had the distinct impression that he was not alone in concealing things at the moment.

* * *

In the afternoon, when he trudged through Umbridge's door, Harry slipped into the steel persona crafted specifically to guard himself during these hours. This Harry did not smile or frown. He was polite but only at the bare minimum and he stayed quiet in and out, acting more like a mannequin than a person.

Thursday's detention passed in the same way as the previous ones, except that after two hours, the words _"I must not tell lies"_ did not fade from the back of Harry's hand. Instead they remained scratched there, biting and stinging, oozing droplets of blood.

The pause in the pointed quill's scratching made Professor Umbridge look up.

"Ah," she said softly, moving around her desk to examine his hand herself. "Good. That ought to serve as a reminder to you, oughtn't it? You may leave for tonight."

"Do I still have to come back tomorrow?" Harry croaked, his throat had dried from hours of no water and when picking up his schoolbag, he reached with his left hand rather than his smarting right.

"Oh yes," said Professor Umbridge, smiling widely as before. Tonks had once told Harry that some animals in the wild bare their teeth as a sign of aggression, "Yes, I think we can etch the message a little deeper with another evening's work."

Harry stared at her, unblinking; the blankest, most unfazed and bored expression masking his face. He noted once more that there were too many perfect teeth in her 'smile' and that her face was much too white compared to the rest of the flabby skin of her neck. He nodded.

"Great." he said, quietly. And then he walked away. Light against the floorboards until his shoes hit the next corner where then he began to step hard, fast to frenzied under the archways, footsteps echoing against deserted stone.

There was a faint feeling of something dripping down the fingers but in truth, Harry had never felt more disconnected from his body—it was like he was controlling his own Wizards Chess piece through the hallways while his mind spiralled into sinkholes of thought. He had never before considered the possibility that there might be another teacher in the world he hated more than Snape, but as he stomped back toward Gryffindor Tower, path made through muscle-memory more than conscious decision, he had to admit; he had found a worthy contender.

_She's evil,_ he thought, and as he climbed a staircase to the seventh floor, he breathed hard and tripped over the steps, she's _evil and twisted and mad and **ugly **and_—

"Ron?"

He had barely reached the top of the stairs and turned right when he walked into his friend, who gave a great leap of surprise when he saw Harry.

"H-hu! I mean _hi_, hi—Harry… " Ron said, backing into a statue of Lachlan the Lanky. He fumbled backwards, attempting to hide his new Cleansweep Eleven behind his back, "What are you doing?"

"Walking back from detention, what are _you _doing?"

"Oh! You're early, that's great!"

"Yeah…" Harry frowned, "What are you hiding here for?"

"I'm—I'm hiding from Fred and George, if you must know," said Ron. He spoke in a very fast, feverish way. "They just went past with a bunch of first years so I bet they're testing stuff on them again, I mean, they can't do it in the common room now, can they, not with Hermione there..."

"And I guess you've got your broom to sweep the floor while you're at it then?"

"I—well—well," Ron sputtered, turning redder with every second. "Okay! I'll tell you, but don't laugh, all right?"

Harry waited, looking at him expectantly.

"I-I, I just _thought_ that I'd try out for Gryffindor Keeper now I've got a decent broom. There. That's it. You can laugh now."

"I'm not laughing," said Harry. Ron blinked. "It's a brilliant idea! It'd be really cool if you got on the team! I've never seen you play Keeper, are you good?"

"I'm not bad," said Ron, who looked immensely relieved. "Charlie, Fred, and George always made me Keep for them when they were training during the holidays."

"So you've been practicing tonight?"

"Every evening since Tuesday… just on my own, though, I've been trying to bewitch Quaffles to fly at me, but it hasn't been easy, and I don't know how much use it'll be." Ron looked nervous and anxious. "Fred and George are going to laugh themselves stupid when I turn up for the try-outs. They haven't stopped taking the mickey out of me since I got made a prefect."

"They're proud and jealous, I'm sure—I wish I could be there," said Harry bitterly, as they set off together toward the common room.

"Yeah, so do—Harry, what's that on the back of your hand?"

Harry, who had just scratched his nose with his free right hand, tried to hide it, but had as much success as Ron with his Cleansweep.

"It's just a cut—it's nothing—it's—" but Ron grabbed Harry's forearm and pulled the back of Harry's hand up level with his eyes. There was a pause, during which he stared at the words carved into the skin, then he released Harry, looking sick.

"I thought she was giving you _lines?"_

"… She technically has—"

"No! No, she hasn't, the old hag!" Ron said in a revolted whisper as they came to a halt in front of the Fat Lady, who was dozing peacefully with her head against her frame.

_"She _didn't cut these in, its this special quill she has…"

"I don't care! She's sick! It's barbaric! **_Why_** didn't you say something!"

"I couldn't," said Harry who suddenly felt very tired, as if the pain of the last few nights had abruptly begun to hit him all at once. "I'm not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she's got to me."

"Satisfaction that she '_got to you'_—? Harry, she'll get away with this if you keep quiet! You should go to someone, like-like McGonagall or—!"

"I don't know how much power McGonagall's got over her,"

"Dumbledore then, tell Dumbledore!"

"No!" said Harry at once.

"Why not?!"

"… He's got enough on his mind with the Order," Harry muttered, but that was not the true reason; Dumbledore had not spoken to him once since last June, and Harry refused risk to irritate the man further over something like this, "I can't go to Madame Pomfrey either, she'll be sure to tell other teachers," he added firmly.

Ron gaped at him. He blinked slowly several times, shook his head and then gripped his broom tighter, "Have you told Cedric then?"

"What?"

"Have you told Ce—"

"Why would I tell him about this?" Harry said. Ron made a noise that sounded like a tiny fuming elephant.

"Cause he's your friend, he's—! Don't you think he _ought_ to know, at least so he doesn't run his mouth off?" said Ron, who was starting to look very cross, "If you're wanting to keep all this a bloody secret then you should try and keep other people from getting hurt too."

Harry gripped tightly on the strap of his bag, "Fine. But _only _Cedric, Ron,"

"Well, I reckon you should—" Ron began, but he was interrupted by the Fat Lady, who had been watching them sleepily and now burst out, "Are you going to give me the password or will I have to stay awake all night waiting for you to finish your conversation?"

* * *

Friday dawned as sullen and sodden as the rest of the week. Out of habit, Harry glanced toward the staff table when he entered the Great Hall but—and as it had proved every other day this week—Hagrid was still not there. He then immediately turned toward the Hufflepuff table but Cedric was not there either, nor was Evan's hulking figure or Hidiyah's signature yellow scarf and eventually he resigned himself to a seat; picking at his porridge and mind turned to the more pressing problems, such as the mountainous pile of homework he had to do and the prospect of yet another detention with Umbridge.

Two things reassured him, and two things only.

The first was the thought that it was almost the weekend. Nothing could beat a Saturday sleep-in after a long week, and it was sweetened by the fact that the teachers seemed to respect the weekend enough to not hand out homework due on Monday. The second was that, dreadful though his final detention with Umbridge was sure to be, Harry would have a distant view of the Quidditch pitch from her window and might, with luck, be able to see something of Ron's try-out. It would be unlikely to make out even Ron's flame of hair underneath the Keeper helmet, not from that distance, but he hoped that maybe he could tell from the way his friend flew.

These were rather feeble rays of light, but Harry was grateful for anything against his present darkness; and he was glad that his worst first week of the term would, at least, be over soon.

"I'm glad that you're going to his try-out," he said, turning to Hermione, "I know you guys are sort-of fighting, but..."

"Of course," Hermione said nonchalantly. She was scouring The Prophet again for 'enemy movements' but you could not mistake the blush that crept on her face. Harry smiled with his mouthful of porridge and said nothing.

The day went quickly by and when he had made it through all his classes and sent Ron and Hermione away with fervent_"Good-luck!"s _and last minute tips, Harry rushed to the Great Hall and filled his stomach with an early dinner.

Around four o'clock, he decided to stroll through the castle and took a long, winding path to Umbridge's office; it was a first-year rookie mistake sort of trail, almost like a Hogwarts pilgrimage that tramped through portrait passages and cut through the second and third floors, avoiding the regular flow of people and allowing Harry to say hello to various portraits and one Nearly Headless Nick—who weaved and pirouetted through stained windows like he was being thrown around by the breeze. As Harry passed through the Viaduct, a mixture of excitement and dread as he counted half an hour until five, he heard someone call out among the few students that drifted through the corridor—

"Harry! _Hey, _Harry!"

A familiar head of brown hair bobbed up and down as Cedric ran forward, ignoring the attention he garnered and looking like he had conquered a steep hill; cheeks flushed, the hair swept from his brow and a bright and breathless grin so infectious—Harry found himself smiling just as widely back.

"Guess what!" Cedric said, his hand stretched forward, and Harry instinctively reached out, "They're going to let me back on the team! I'm still in the season, I-I'm still Hufflepuff Captain for the year!"

Though already on a high, Harry felt something lift from inside and he grabbed Cedric's palm with a laugh, "That's _magnificent!"_

"I know! Professor Sprout just gave me the news! This whole week, actually, we've been lobbying for—" Cedric's shining face dropped, "Wait, what's that?"

At once, Harry retracted his hand inside his sleeve, with a sinking sense of deja-vu.

"What's what?" he said, heart beating loudly.

"That, on your hand. It looks like a wound," said Cedric with wide concern, "Are you alright? Did you fall?"

"It's just a scratch—nothing really—it..."

"Let me look—" he said, but panic must have slipped into Harry's face because suddenly, Cedric seized the cuff of his sleeve.

"Erm!" Harry shook him off and took a step back, startled when Cedric followed, marching determinedly behind him until they found themselves backed into the window of a completely different hallway.

"It's isn't anything, really, Hedwig just got a little playful and—"

_"Harry."_

His voice, again, was soft—trying to hide insistence. And in turn, Harry could not resist as gently Cedric took his hand and rolled down his sleeve, though he himself recoiled at the bright daylight that shone down the gruesome slits in his skin. You could see bruisings of pink and yellow that flowered underneath the cuts, and how the edges of each stroke grafted to the rest of his skin—already red and freshly scabbing, raw and it looked _foul _and—

There was a sharp breath that made Harry wince. From above him, Cedric blinked, his mouth working open and closed—speechless—before finally he said, "What… What is _this—_who did this to you?"

_Umbridge. It was Dolores Umbridge, _he thought. But when Harry opened his mouth, he faltered.  
The words did not come.

"Was it that Malfoy person?" Cedric asked, filling his silence. Harry shook his head.  
Nothing was spilling out, only the dim amblings of shame and a grimace at the prickle of his wound while he blinked very, very fast and tried to decide whether to lie or tell the truth.

"Someone else then? The fellow you argued with?"

"No… no, it wasn't Seamus—"

"Then did a _teacher _do this to you?" Cedric asked.

Harry felt like someone had thrown a pail of ice water at his stomach, and he swallowed, mumbling "Yeah."  
And he felt Cedric's fingers halt, frozen on his wrist.

Neither of them seemed to know what to say.

"It was… it was that Umbridge woman but listen, it's not so bad—" he began,

"I'm going to _kill_ her." said Cedric, his voice so low that Harry almost didn't catch it—only coming to his senses when Cedric had wheeled around and stalked off in the direction of her office.

"No!" he hurried after him, but Cedric didn't seem to notice, as he took strides long and quick, robes swaying in a wild way around his feet. "Wait, Cedric! _Cedric! _It's all right, I'm—..._ugh!"_ and suddenly Harry doubled over and heaved heavy breaths, and he began to claw and wrench at his hand as though he could snap it off.

Pain had come like this, multiple times since the words had cut through but Harry had always managed to play it down or, get to a corner deserted enough where he could suffer as noisily as he liked. This time, however, the words that had etched onto his skin _burned_, the pain travelled up his arm, _shooting—_falling and surging at a rate that seemed cruelly random—dull fourth-fifths of a moment before it stabbed at him again, his sight flashing in whites as he felt his hand being skewered and reskewered over and over.

Harry gasped, unable to keep balanced. In seconds Cedric rushed to him, one hand cupped around Harry's palm while the other ushered them deeper down the corridor. His face—which had been previously clouded by something dark and harsh—creased in worry.

"Are you alright, what happened? Is it—"

"You… _can't."_ Harry choked, he looked up with red eyes.

"What?"

"You _can't storm _Umbridge!" he exclaimed, gritting through the pain, "She'll… you'll end up the same as me!"

Slowly, Cedric frowned, and it set densely into his face. Then, without thinking, he opened his mouth and jerked upright; aghast—

"She hurt _you!"_

"You mustn't—!" Harry said and then he stopped, scowling at the growing number of oglers around them before he pulled Cedric down the corridor, and half-way through George von Rheticus's portrait passage. In a voice thick with urgency and strain, he said, "You'll be in worse trouble than before, she'll—she'll take away your captaincy,"

"Let her!"

"NO!" Harry barked, he had begun to sweat uncomfortably both from the pain and the enclosed space, "You've done enough, Cedric! I know that she, or.. the Ministry's been sending you letters and—… I know about it, I _know._ You've done enough_."_

Cedric looked away; his mouth squeezed into a thin line.

The cogs were spinning in his head, and the logic was sound.  
The cogs were spinning in his head, and the logic was sound but _Merlin—_that would not keep the shadows from his face. It would not stop his teeth or jaw from clamping angular and sharp, or placate the temper that seared and stabbed at him; would not stop his fists from trembling under the torchlight.

But then, Cedric plucked Harry's hand and shakily, as if it took him great effort, he huffed _"Enfizo."  
_And with eyes closed, the ends of his nails pressed against the lay lines of Harry's palm, he only kept repeating_ "Enfizo… Enfizo."; _like a mantra. Though unlike Evan's tendrils of vine and flower; Light, a pure but warm glow that reminded Harry of fireplace hearths, floating lanterns and dandelions, wound around his hand like a bandage before it billowed out, coasting in beams that corkscrewed around them.

Harry stared at him, open-mouthed, "That's the spell your friend used…"

_"Enfizo,"_ said Cedric, "And who do you think taught him? _Enfizo…" _

"Oh, I-I didn't mean—"

"_Enfizo, _shush, I'm concentrating_,_" said Cedric, eyes still closed, _"Enfizo,"_

Harry bit down a shrewd smile and closed his eyes. He tried his best to keep his hand from writhing, tried to swallow the excruciating sting and coil it around his bones but slowly, the pain ebbed away; and the spike, the fierce sore that gripped his hand cushioned to a manageable throb.  
Though the passage was still cramped and stuffy with two people inside, Harry felt his sweat slow and the fabric of his robes unstick to his body. Overcome by relief, he let go of a breath that made his eyes flutter open and the lights were gone. Only the warm glow of the passage's torches lit up it's interior, and Cedric was already staring.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked.

"Only a little now, thank you," said Harry and they both stayed there, staring at his hand a while before Cedric spoke again.

"Have you told… _anyone?"_

"Only Ron. He found out yesterday."

"Why haven't you gone to the teachers—?"

"Because she'll win," Harry said, flinching as he took his hand back, "Just because she leaves Hogwarts doesn't mean we'll be rid of her or the Ministry forever; they'll keep sending people."

"And you're going to pretend that _this_ didn't happen?" Cedric stepped forward and pointed at his hand, _"I'm_ supposed to pretend that this isn't happening?"

"I am _trying_—" Harry said quietly, remembering white knuckles clenching the leg of Grimmauld's dining table— "to protect you."

Silence.

A heavy silence.

From behind, the torch illuminated the back of Cedric's head and let shadow spill on his face, so much so that Harry couldn't see his expression very well. He could only sense the tenseness in the air, and the sound of his own heart thumping.

"I should've been there,"

"What?"

"I haven't been around—I _should've_ been around…" Cedric shook his head, not making eye-contact, "This happened to you in just a few days and I wasn't around and now all you're wanting me to do is—!… I feel helpless!" he became very still and very quiet, staring at Harry's wounded hand, _"I hate it."_

"... You've done enough," Harry said, mouth dry. But Cedric twitched, and stood up to his full height.

"You're not—you're being daft! How could I have done 'enough'? I've barely begun to do anything to help you this entire time!"

_"You're _daft!" said Harry angrily. "You mustn't go and hurt yourself because of me. I don't want you going out of your way for 'justice' or anything like it! Cedric, you _just _got back onto the Quidditch team, if I cause any more trouble for you…"

"It's no trouble!" Cedric fumed. "It's no trouble _at all!_ How could _you_ be trouble?"

And in that moment Harry felt his anger dim. Something stirred in his chest and he lifted his head from the floor, not knowing what kind of expression he was showing, only that in the brief glimpses out of shadow, Cedric softened and stared—tender and unblinking under the luster of torchlight.

"You really think I'd leave you.. just because my record isn't as _shiny_ as it used to be?" he murmured.

"It could get worse," Harry whispered, surprising himself as briefly, _briefly_, his eyes pricked and brimmed, "This week's been rotten but for what it's worth, there can always be something else much worse,"

"So I'm supposed to… _let_ _you_ get hurt? How is that fair?"

"It's fine," Harry said. Cedric scoffed.

"That's not fair," he repeated, just as quietly.

Harry wanted to say more. He wanted to add, _I'd do it one hundred times so it wouldn't be you, _but that felt like too much. It lodged in his throat and he swallowed it down because he was furious and worried and confused and regretful all at the same time.

But there was joy that Cedric was here again.

There was comfort. An ease, a _delight _that Cedric was here and that he was _enraged _about Umbridge and that he seemed ready to go to war at any moment, and Harry _loathed _that he was happy about the fact. He loathed that it comforted and soothed all the stress that had piled up from the week.

"It's not fair," he said softly, "But you know having… you alone—it's enough to have you beside me."

A gleam of fire flickered as Cedric stood still, looking at Harry indecipherably.

"Can you give me your hand again?"

Harry lifted it toward him, "What'll you do?"

Without answering, Cedric took his hand once more and then whispered something, something too soft to even sift between particles of dust off the stone, too soft for even air to register and weigh apart from itself in the breath of the moment but before he could dissect and realize—Harry felt electricity course through his entire nervous system as Cedric leaned down and kissed his hand with the briefest and gentlest of touch.  
The dull, uncomfortable ache vanished and Harry felt his mind split; first reeling, as from Cedric's lips, that same warm light wisped around his hand like a golden ribbon before melting into his skin, and second—astonishment as he stared down, the revelation that his palm and all its connecting fingers and limb was now weightless and light—it had always been weightless and light.

Harry felt Cedric reach toward him, his fingers brushed the hair from his eyes.

"What did you do?" he asked, unable to breathe.

"A charm," said Cedric, "To keep you safe."

Harry knew he wasn't talking about the spell.

He was no longer in pain, but he felt his hand tingle. He was no longer in pain, but he felt his face heat up, and his heart batter loudly inside his ribcage as Cedric looked at him; sad but touched all at the same time.

"Cedric. Erm, I'm—"

"Excuse me fellows!" the interrupting, reedy voice of George von Rheticus bounced off the passage walls, "I'm sorry to interrupt but I'm afraid it is rather _improper_ etiquette to loiter inside a portraits passageway—it gives us the bends! I think it's high time you move along to your destinations, don't you?"


	30. Slow Burn

Dyed by afternoon light, Umbridge's office was silent, save only the sound of a single quill scratching parchment and the tap of a heel from a remote corner of the room. Harry could see the faraway sprawl of the Quidditch pitch, small and verdant in the left pane of a window and every now and then, the rattling noise of sporting calls and Quaffles clanging against metal hoops rang distant from across the bounds of the field.

_I must not tell lies,_ Harry wrote. He sat straight in the wooden chair, the cut on the back of his right hand prickling like someone was pressing too hard against it but, to his pleasant surprise, the wound did not open.  
As if layers of skin had healed over, tough and hide-like, the slashes did not budge as he wrote over and over again—_I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies—_neither searing heat nor the colour of red flashed in the middle of his eyes, only stillness, a certain peace stayed and fed into the hope that he could get through these hours and into his bed quickly.

_I must not tell lies._ There was a cutting sensation that dug deep but only a dull ache settled, not even stinging under his skin. The meowing of a hundred or so cats faded, and the walls of the room melted in his vision—it was only his heavy hand, moving in a rhythm of strokes that scrawled identical red lines on parchment, and his head counting to the beat of the clock; _I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies, I must not tell…_

For a moment, his mind lingered on the memory of Cedric; of warm torchlight splashing against stone, and the sound of his voice whispering _"Enfizo"… _

It echoed at the back of his head, the way it did in the passageway… and again…

… _not tell lies,_ _I must not tell lies._

_I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies._

No blood. Not a drop. His wrist was clean, and the parchment blemished only when the quill blotted. It hurt, still, to write but in no way could it be compared to the agony of last night or even, just a few hours ago.

_I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies._

_I must not tell lies, I must not tell lies._

_I must not tell lies, I'm... I mustn't... Ah I've made a mistake—_Harry's hand tingled.

Cedric smiled when he ran. Stray hairs, his cheeks flushed pink from wind-burn and the light of his spells that curled around in the passageway were incandescent, gleaming.

_Scratch out the last two lines: I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies._

The anger surprised Harry: it didn't really settle well into Cedric's features. It only sharpened his face and tuned it tightly, the grey of his iris curdling like dark thunderclouds, heaving giant's storm on the horizon. But then, he thought about how Cedric's eyes softened in that moment of weakness, _his _weakness—and then how Cedric's hands felt wrapped around his own.

He thought about the jut of his jaw, how shadow and light played, dancing around the curve of his cheeks; that slow way Cedric took his hand and kissed it, like some sacred rite and Harry didn't notice this, but all the while he began thinking, drifting, daydreaming; his handwriting loosened. It looped and slanted toward the end of the sentence, unfocused. _I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies._ And when he next looked up, he was surprised to find that night had fallen and that he had forgotten to even glance at the Quidditch pitch, which was no longer visible in the darkness that lay outside the window.

As the realization struck him, Umbridge's sickly voice crept in.

"Let's see if you've gotten the message yet, shall we?"

She moved toward him, stretching out her short be-ringed fingers for his arm, but the moment she frowned, Harry relished it—triumphant as he brandished a hand that had stayed as clean as it was when he first entered.

"Have you been casting healing spells, Mr Potter?" Umbridge said, softly. "Because that would most inappropriately _derail _the point of the exercise."

Harry resisted a shudder.

"No," he said, shaking his head.

"… No, _Professor Umbridge." _

Harry stared at her a while and then simply shook his head again, as if he didn't hear the second part, "Is there something wrong?"

Umbridge's lip twitched but she said nothing. As she took hold of him to examine the words on his skin, _pain_ seared, not across the back of his hand but across the scar on his forehead.

Harry wrenched his arm out of her grip and leapt to his feet while Umbridge stared back at him, surprised.

"Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" she said slowly. He did not answer. His heart was thumping very hard and fast and whatever satisfaction, whatever warm feeling he had felt seconds ago, had been replaced by a most peculiar sensation somewhere around his midriff; _Was she talking about his hand or did she know what he had just felt in his forehead?_

In his silence, Umbridge's hands returned to their clasped position and she said, "Well, I think I've made my point, Mr. Potter. You may go."

Harry caught up his school bag and left the room as quickly as he could. When he turned the corner, he broke into a sprint across the corridors and hallways.

_Stay calm,_ he told himself as he ran without stopping—not able to care about the potential of Filch's creeping figure behind corners or even the rupture of his own lungs as he raced up the stairs—_Stay calm, it doesn't necessarily mean what you think it means… _

"Mimbulus mimbletonia!" he gasped at the Fat Lady. She swung forward with sluggish grumbles while Harry wobbled through, the world spinning all around him. But as the Fat Lady clicked back into place from behind, Harry was surprised to find that the common room was not covered in darkness, instead; streams of firelight stretched across the floor and in their warm glow, he could make out that the common room had been completely cleared of furniture except for a large table that stood directly in the middle, plates and mugs stacked at its edge and a burlap sack that was filled with what looked like… confetti?

By the fireplace, three figures sat on the rug. "Ron, Hermione—what are you two doing so late?" he said, dumping his bag on the couch. The figures turned and his heart skipped, legs almost stumbling over themselves, _"Cedric?_ What are you doing here?"

Before anyone replied, Harry felt a cold mug press into his hand, _"We_, are celebrating that you're finally off Umbridge's detentions, and that _I_ got into the team," said Ron, who gently pushed him to the couch.

"You got it?" said Harry, wide-eyed.

Ron grinned, "Apparently."

_"You got it!"_ Harry stuck his hand out and ruffled his friend's head, sending his hair to spill all over his eyes.

"They were throwing a real ruckus for me, hours ago!" Ron laughed, swatting at him in a half-hearted way, "But it felt a little strange with you away—"

"You were waiting for me?"

Ron hit their two mugs together, "'Course! It's your night as well!"

"But…" Harry shot a confused look to Cedric, who sat stiffly cradling his own cup, "Well then, why are you _here?"_

Cedric smiled. It was his usual smile, but there was something unusually stagnant behind his eyes, "Is it a crime?"

"I just… erm… I feel like there's got to be some kind of unspoken rule about the sanctity of common rooms—"

"The _sanctity_ of _common rooms?"_ Ron repeated, bewildered.

"Actually, that doesn't matter if you're a prefect—" said Hermione, factually "We can go to _any_ of the house common rooms under some circumstances."

"How'd you know that?"

"It was in the orientation booklet they gave on the train, Ronald."

Harry put up his hand, "But Cedric isn't—you aren't…"

"Well, _that_'s the funniest thing," Cedric said. He flashed something golden from between his fingers, "They never actually asked for the badge back."

"Oh, what a load of—! It's only because the Fat Lady's _sweet_ on you. You're probably the first person in the century to compliment her singing, of course she'll let you in!" Ron snorted. Despite himself, Harry laughed as well, taken aback at how easily it came out when minutes ago; he felt like he had cusped the threshold of a heart attack.

"Anyways, Harry, are you hungry? Have you eaten anything?" Hermione asked. "There's a lot of leftovers from the celebration… Angelina actually baked a really nice cake!"

"Oh I'm fine, Hermione, I was thinking of going to bed actually..."

"You must eat _something! _It's been hours since dinner,"

"Yeah, drink up now, mate! Fred and George treated everyone to Butterbeers, 'sides you'll be able to sleep all you want tomorrow," Ron said.

"I could sleep some more if I go now though…"

"Harry!"

_"Harry!"_

"Alright, alright!" Harry sighed but there was a bright mirth on his face as he gave in, "Could you bring me some of those leftovers, then?"

Earnestly, Ron and Hermione jumped to their feet and made their way across the room, opening the lids of some platters on the table. A delightful smell seemed to dance its way to the fireplace, bewildering Harry—who watched them with a small but secret smile—and as he sunk into the back of the sofa, he pressed the back of his hand against the coolness of his mug, slowly, but with the smallest wince in his breath.

"Give me your hand." someone said.

Harry turned to see that Cedric was frowning at him, staring down so vexed and furrowed, that it suddenly became obvious why he had chosen to come here and stay, so late into the night.

Gingerly, he lifted his arm, "Here."

As the fingers curled around, Harry felt something leap at the thought of his hand being kissed one more time.  
But Cedric only muttered the incantation—his eyes flashing a brilliant yellow before once again, a beam of light streamed and melted into Harry's palm—the soreness alleviated like it was under a wave that washed over, warm, until the pain completely and utterly disappeared.

"Thank you," Harry breathed. He waited but Cedric did not let go of his hand.  
And strangely, he did not want to let go either.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing," said Cedric. His touch lingered a second, two and then he let go. The warmth of his fingers gone and Harry's palm his own again.

"Last one," Cedric murmured. He gave a smile, gentle, and realer this time. As if the fledgling stillness behind his eyes had melted away. "Last one. Let's keep it that way."

Harry smiled back. Something surged inside him but he could blame only his mug of Butterbeer, from which he had yet to take a sip, "Do you—Could you go somewhere tomorrow? With me?" he asked.

Cedric blinked.

There was something unresolved between them, something other than the crackle of burning logs and Hermione and Ron's bickering in the background that wrest in the air. Harry didn't know whether it was just tension, perhaps from the vague resolution of their earlier argument, or whether in actual fact it was something _kinder_. Something soft and different shifting between them.  
All he knew was that Cedric's smile deepened at his question, and that the glow of the fireplace did not hold back from lighting his handsome face.

"Of course," he said, like it was the easiest thing to say in the world.

"Okay," said Harry. He took a sip of his mug and waited patiently as Ron and Hermione's chatter grew louder behind the couch, glancing—every now and then, _just glancing_—at Cedric's lips painted by firelight.

* * *

A hand slapped the trunk of a tree, holding onto its lower branch with red-bare knuckles, "Tell me, why am I trekking in the woods _this _early in the morning?"

All around them, the land lay in that morning dimness—the type of morose blues that would settle in shaded undergrowth, just as the sun rose to the sky. Cedric felt his boot crunch against leaf and dirt and began to regret wearing such a thick sweater, the cold clinging to each knit like a ghost too heavy to be barely there. A little further up the path, Harry stopped, taking a brief pause from battling the slope to turn toward him.

"Because you _agreed_ to come with me," he said, with a wry grin.

To call their surroundings a 'woods' would be a disservice to actual forests and busheries.

The trees that grew along the path were but a thin grove, blanketed by even thinner mist that wove endless around the moor. In the distance, you could make the vague outline of the castle and Hagrid's hut a few ways down the larger hill. Even their destination—the Owlery—remained in sight as they walked on; it's rocky mound melding into tower and tall steeple that glinted, serendipitous, in the beginnings of the rising dawn.

Harry slowed so they could walk side by side, noticing that Cedric's entire body, with great discomfort, bent and trudged up the hill; arms swinging forward in a stiff way. He was breathing slowly, the air was so brisk and so cold that he could almost feel the shape of it circulating within his chest. Before Harry could even ask if he was okay, Cedric gave a heavy huff of breath.

"—'m just not shape yet…" he protested, "I'm not usually like this... But I didn't have time for much of any training this past week."

"What were you doing?" Harry asked, he recalled the pain of having to search for him for four straight days, "I haven't seen you at all."

"Well I've just been in the library, pouring over the old handbooks,"

_"What?"_

"I told you, yeah? My friends and I, we lobbied for a way to keep my captaincy," Cedric rolled the sleeves of his sweater, the mist spilling out his mouth in his short breaths, "I think... I think we were going through piles of Hogwart's old rulebooks per _day—_every edition, every version under every headmaster. Hidiyah even... she found some scrolls that look they've been written by the founders."

Harry and Cedric began to crest the hill, the path flattening around the bend as they regained their breath.

"So you found something to support your case, then?" Harry asked. Cedric nodded.

"As soon as we found proper litigation, we presented the case to Sprout and McGonagall and now... I'm back on track for a rematch with you and Gryffindor without all the Dementors running around!"

Harry shook his head in disbelief, incredulous and feeling almost guilty that he had felt so _deprived_ of Cedric's presence these past few days.

"The library... I can't believe I didn't check _the library..." _Harry muttered. He then shook his head.

They crossed the wooden bridge and reached the base of the Owlery's steps, where at that moment something brushed his ankles. He looked down and saw the caretaker's skeletal grey cat, Mrs. Norris, slinking past him. She turned lamp-like yellow eyes upon him for a moment before disappearing behind a statue of Wilfred the Wistful, with the unmistakable air of a cat that was off to report to her boss, yet on the surface Harry could not see why; he and Cedric were perfectly entitled to walk up to the Owlery on a Saturday morning.

"We're not doing anything wrong!" Harry called after her, then more hesitantly, "At least I don't think we are…"

Cedric motioned him over and they began to climb the staircase, uneven and weathered rough over the years, "She's probably suspicious that we're out so early on a Saturday morning," he said.

"But it's better to come around this time,"

"And why is that?"

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets, "Less people. You don't want a lot around, especially when they've taken to screaming our names like it's a hex—"

_"Ha!"_

"—And besides, you told me to go to an adult," said Harry. He took out the sealed envelope from his pocket, where he had written the name _'Snuffles' _hastily in black ink. "We need less people around if I'm to go to _my_ adult."

Cedric grinned.

"So you _were _listening back there..."

"Hard not to. What with you and Ron both being upset with me,"

"I wasn't upset—" Cedric looked to him and gave an astonished laugh at the face Harry made—"I wasn't!"

"You told me to shut up!"

"Yes, when I was concentrating on _healing_ you and besides, you got hurt! I wasn't—..." his brow furrowed, "I wasn't angry at you..."

Harry wavered, chest warm.

"But you _were_ angry?" he asked, smirking. Cedric pursed his lips and tried not to smile so openly at his brazen face.

_"Merlin!" _he exclaimed, and he grabbed the rim of the red knitted hat on Harry's head and pulled down, completely covering the top half of his face. Harry gave an indignant cry—_"CEDRIC!"—_and promptly gave chase as Cedric raced up the stairs, their shouts light in the wind that carried it and their laughter as easy to spill, echoing below.

When Harry and Cedric entered the Owlery, panting after their run, the sun was higher in the sky and the towers glassless windows dazzled their eyes. Thick beams of light crisscrossed the circular room in which hundreds of owls nestled on rafters and in arch-shaped carvings in the walls; dozing or a little restless in the morning brightness, while some clearly just returned from hunting.

Harry craned his neck and looked around him and called aloud, _"Hedwig!"_; the straw-covered floor crunched a little as he stepped across tiny animal bones, but he could not find her white-feathered form anywhere in the rafters. "Where is she?"

"Maybe out for a meal?" Cedric suggested.

In the weak hope that they could catch her flying back from a hunt, Harry and Cedric ambled toward the window where a chill blew right through their clothes and took them aback—eyes bleary at the sight of the Forbidden Forest patched with auburn and lightened greens and russets against a brilliantly blue sky. Clusters of mist, like smoke drifting from the trees, clung to the canopy here and there but Harry watched as the treetops swayed, unperturbed, in the light breeze. He savoured the rush of the wind on his face, and heard Cedric take a great gulp of air and exhale.

"Wow…"

"Yeah," Harry took a similar big breath. It suddenly occurred to him that though he had come here many times to take in the scenery: he had never really enjoyed it with another person before.

"Really?" said Cedric curiously, "I thought you went _everywhere_ with Hermione and Ron,"

_Oops._

"Well, most people don't really go to the Owlery for the view," Harry said.

"It sounds like you do."

"I mean _besides _nutters like me."

Cedric looked to Harry, his cheeks warmed red from the biting gust.  
"I ought to just come with you more, then," he decided.

Out of instinct, Harry looked down and felt himself smile, his hands burrowing deeper into his pockets,

"That might be fun."

For a moment, everything stilled in the Owlery. Harry and Cedric abandoned any pretense of talk and simply stared out the window, the wind blowing sometimes fierce, always invigorating around them.  
It would be a lovely day to fly.  
The roll of meadow and it's surrounding mountains set before you, the sky clear overhead—each gale that rushed through their hair, that cut into their clothes reminded Harry and Cedric of the thrill of Quidditch; of flying and soaring with everything endless above and below you.

"I can't wait.." Cedric said. He was beaming, and Harry knew—he probably looked the same.

"Yeah..." he said. "I can't wait."

Dust cascaded down, caught in fractures of light, and from behind them the owls were crooning—almost like they were singing lullabies to themselves and they settled to sleep for the day. Then, Cedric saw it; a great, reptilian winged horse, just like the ones pulling the Hogwarts carriages, with leathery black wings spread wide like a pterodactyl's, rose up out of the trees like a grotesque, giant bird. It soared in a great circle and then plunged once more into the trees. The whole thing had happened so quickly Cedric could hardly believe what he had seen, except that his heart was hammering madly and that he was lurching backward, only stopping when Harry promptly flung a hand behind, to keep him from stumbling backwards.

"Cedric? What's—!"

Without warning the Owlery door opened behind them and this time, it was Harry that leapt in shock as Cho Chang stood in the doorway, holding a letter and a parcel in her hands.

"Hi," said Harry and Cedric automatically.

"Oh… hi," she said breathlessly. "I didn't think anyone would be up here this early… I only remembered five minutes ago, it's my—"

"—Mum's birthday."

Harry turned to Cedric, who scratched his neck. The fear had vanished from his face and instead replaced by a tight smile, almost a grimace.  
He looked to the ground while Cho stared at him in surprise.

"Yeah... yes, that's right." she nervously held up a strangely shaped parcel. "Sorry, was I—am I interrupting?"

"What?" Harry dropped his hand to his side, "No, we were just looking out the window and well…well… it's a nice day," Harry said, gesturing outside. Almost instantly his insides seemed to shrivel with embarrassment, and even as he turned away, he felt the urge to hit himself various times—… _the weather. _He was talking about _the_ _weather…_

It would've been better to be funny or interesting but when he glanced at Cho's modest smile and Cedric's forced one, he decided that he couldn't possibly say anything that could deter from this current strange and amalgamated form of awkwardness.

Cedric looked between them, "I can… I'll wait outside—"

"What?" Harry turned to him right away, "Why?"

"Oh, because… erm," Cedric look between him and Cho again, and for the first time, lowered his gaze, evading; inching ever closer and closer towards the door.

"Stay." Harry said. He surprised himself. The word slipped so fast from his lips that he hurriedly began to speak again, "I mean—it's alright—just a few minutes."

Uncertainly, Cedric stepped away from the door and walked closer to him, "…Alright."

As if on cue, a flutter of wings tumbled through the open windows from above, each head tilting upward as their attention shifted—

"There you are!" Harry cried. Hedwig had swooped in and hovered somewhere near the very top of the vaulted ceiling. "Get down here, I've got a letter for you!"

With a low hoot she stretched her great white wings and soared down onto his shoulder, dispersing the tension as if she had reset the room with her presence. Cho gave a timid wave as Harry scratched under Hedwig's beak, moving to the opposite side of the room and gazing at the many occupied carved arches in search of a school-owned owl, listless enough to deliver her parcel.

Cedric—in the midst of Harry explaining to Hedwig in a low voice, the identity of _'Snuffles'_ and who the true recipient of his letter was—wandered by the window once more, staring hard into the sea of autumnal leaves.  
Nothing peculiar flew into the air. Only a few more owls rose from the Forbidden Forest, their various brown and black-speckled plumes growing more vivid in the light, but nothing that resembled scales or lizard-like creatures emerged from the same vicinity. He then began to lose focus on the details of the horizon while a soft voice slipped in, _"...—ing?"_

Cho had sidled up beside him, still clutching at her package, causing his heart to jolt.

"What?" he said.

"... What?"

"No, erm, sorry," Cedric shook his head, "What did you say?"

Cho blinked, "Oh! Err—what are you doing?" she repeated.

Cedric pointed out the window, "Just looking. Since it's nice weather and all."

"Yeah, I noticed on my way here. Harry was right..."

"Right."

As if to avoid talking to each other, they silently looked out the window, while Cedric felt every individual muscle inside him tense like loaded spring-locks.

"Hey erm... it's been a while," he said, quietly. Slowly Cho shifted, though whether it was out of discomfort or to solely to face him, Cedric was unsure.

"Yes. It's been a while..." she nodded. "How... how have you been?"

Cedric considered what sort of words he could use to describe the things he had seen, heard and been through since the last time he had written to her.

"I'm okay... I've been okay," he said. He could hear George and Fred laughing at him in the back of his mind. "You?"

Cho gave him a small smile that used to make his heart drop.

"I'm alright," she said. She combed through her hair—it was much longer than Cedric remembered.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Yes, I think so," she replied. They gave each other stiff smiles before they simultaneously turned to the window again.

_This... This is strange, _Cedric thought.

Little was known about what happened between Cho Chang and Cedric Diggory after the tournament—nothing could be known or said besides whatever gossip or speculations had been put forward to spike more interesting rumors.  
The two of them had made many friends in the last year, but none could truly attest to what transpired over the summer break.

All that was known in between any of the students who cared, was that when the year began; Cedric and Cho sat in their classes, passed each other in the halls and have gone through the entire week completely ignoring each other—as if there was an unspoken agreement that binding an air around and between them, convincing even their most distant and unloyal friends to pretend that the last year had never happened. And for Cedric, that was fine. It was.

_It's no one's business, _he thought, staunchly. Even in his letters to Evan and Hidiyah, his break up with Cho occupied maybe two lines at most. _No one's business but her's and mine._

And yet... here she was.

Everything from the way Cho's eyes never met his to her nervous tick of playing with her fingers, her hair—everything was a reminder of how _ painful _it had been for the both of them. Or at least, how their pretense of nothing, of indifference could only go so far.

Cedric could feel his smile stretch stringent on his cheek.  
Cho's voice was so quiet and so restrained, he could almost hear the way she consciously pulled onto strings of her tone, dissecting each word's weight before they could even left her mouth.

It felt _so_ uncomfortable.

"I heard that you were demoted from being Prefect," Cho said suddenly, frowning. "That's _awful._ I can't imagine how that would feel."

Cedric smiled. Not unkindly.

It was just funny.

_I can't imagine how **you **feel._

Not, _I'm sorry that it happened. _Or, _How do you feel? _

_I_ can't imagine how _you_ feel.

They were only 5 feet apart and yet the distance between them—between then and now—it felt _immeasurable._  
And Cedric had never truly felt it more acutely than now.

"It's not too bad," he shrugged. Cho raised an eyebrow, and Cedric knew exactly what went through her mind.

"Really?" she asked.

"Really."

Cedric used to think his heart would ache if she ever spoke to him like this, acted like this—like she was talking to him from behind a wall; talking to him like all the others.  
He used to think that his body would wrench when the day came where her smile would never be his, always thinking, _ believing _ that there would be a pang; a bell that would toll in his head even if they only ever had _ one _ conversation after the summer.

He _ used to _ think this, but—

"It's a work in progress," Cedric said, answering the question that she never really posed. Cho fiddled with the string wrapped around her parcel, not directly avoiding his gaze this time, but Cedric was certain that her attention wasn't fully spent in being engrossed with the window.

"And how's that going?" she asked.

"Well... someone's helping me," Cedric couldn't help but let his eyes linger toward Harry before noting, with faint amusement, that he looked to be in the middle of a very animated conversation with Hedwig. A soft laugh, involuntarily, bubbled in his throat.

"What's so funny?" Cho asked. Cedric shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his face.

"It's nothing, they just—... I've been having a lot of fun with them," he said.

Cho faltered, caught off-guard for a moment, before she nodded knowingly and smiled, warm.

For what it's worth—it really used to make his heart flutter.

_Used to._

There were other things now.

And Cedric didn't need to reach up and feel his chest to know that despite tripping over her pretty smile a year ago; now, it was silent.

"He's really great, isn't he?" Cho said, suddenly. She turned back to Harry who continued, oblivious to their attention, to pat Hedwig's head. And Cedric saw a smile, all too familiarly, all too _devastatingly, _soften Cho's face.

_Oh._

He felt the knot in his chest tighten.

In a moment the soft smile that played on Cedric's face changed, and he looked between Cho and Harry.

"Yes." he whispered. Only to himself. "Yes he is."


	31. Extra: Blame

Cedric stared at the ground, feeling as if all the dust that fell from gaps of weathered stone gathered and rest upon his shoulders. He could not look.

He could not bear to look.

It was as though keeping his head down was as vital as keeping his heartbeat in tow, and it was _pounding; _a cacophonous and thudding pulse that flooded his ears until he felt something surely loosen inside him.

"Are you alright?" someone said. It was Cho's soft voice.

"Fine," Cedric swallowed, and he looked up, forcing his mask back on. "I'm fine."

Cho nodded. If she had noticed anything, she did not mention it and instead turned back, glancing at Harry and Hedwig still in the corner.

"You know, I thought that people weren't flocking to you the way they usually do," she murmured. The smile that had graced her face disappeared as she continued their conversation, "but it seems you've still got Harry by your side — that's lucky,"

Cedric pushed down the clamped, tightness in his throat and forced a small laugh. "I suppose you can't get rid of everyone. People can be pretty insistent on staying or going... no matter what."

"Yeah," Cho nodded again. She looked almost wistful. "Yeah, I hear that."

Despite himself, Cedric felt the center of his chest douse in heat.

"I hear that people aren't surrounding you as much either," he said, quietly.

Cho's face did not change, "Yes. I think the novelty wore off after the third trial."

Cedric felt a part of him shrink back.

"I've been meaning to, er.. Look, I'm sorry that... your friends.. they've—"

"—abandoned me for the year? ... Don't be." Cho looked at him meaningfully. "Don't say 'sorry'. It isn't like that."

"Right, so they're all avoiding you because you're—... just the same as always, then?"

Cho's brow slanted.  
"It isn't because of _you."_ she said quietly, turning her head to look off into the window again. _It isn't your fault; _she meant.

_Don't be arrogant; _she could have also meant.

Half-heartedly, Cedric nodded though he knew she wouldn't see, "If you say so," and—_Like Merlin's pants, it isn't, _he thought.

_I'm just trying to be nice!_ he could have also thought.

"... Don't tell me you're still blaming yourself..." Cho said.

Cedric's mouth turned dry. She was not talking about her friends.

"Don't you?"

"Of course not." Cho's eyes flashed to his, _"Never."_

Cedric felt his head unravel, "Then why...?" _Why did you let me go?_

"You broke up with me," she said. A fleeting hint; _**You** broke up with **me. **_"I certainly didn't agree to ending things because _I_ blamed you."

Word for word, Cho matched his gaze, nothing particularly spiteful or affectionate in her brown eyes; only stubbornness lay within them. Straightforward stubbornness, so blunt, he could read her thoughts almost as well as she apparently read his.

"Then what do you want to hear from me? _Yes?" _Cedric felt surprised as the the corners of his lips bit a little too harshly into his cheek, small embers of his temper flaring out in what would otherwise be a level voice. "What would you like me to say?"

"I don't know," Cho flung her head up, long hair falling out of her bundled scarf, her breath condensing into thin mist_—"Dragon's Breath_," she used to call it— "I don't... know anymore."

She stared at him, a plainer expression this time, though one that was immensely more tired.

"Maybe I thought you'd be honest with me, at last," she said, "but you really do, don't you? Blame yourself, I mean—you're still holding on it even though _I_ never asked you to."

Cedric winced. His mask slipped, like stone shifting against stone, and many things flashed through his head though for the life of him; he could not say any of it back.

The silence was enough of an answer to make Cho look off to the side, her head held low.

"Right, well... bye Ced. I'll see you around," and without another word she turned away and crossed over to the other side of the Owlery, seemingly resuming her search for an owl while more unforgivably; her question echoed inside Cedric's head, like wind-chimes on an autumn day, a _blaring_ accusation.

Cedric felt the tightness ebb back inside his throat.

A few feet away, Hedwig gently pecked at Harry—who had been standing for an entire minute, frozen in place. Breathing quietly and wide-eyed, behind his glasses.


	32. Of Gnawings and Wandering Wind

Harry crashed through short-stopped brambles and little twigs caught in the grass, the dirt path below him snaking into a thicket that led back to the grey Hogwarts towers, poking against a bright sky. In front, Cedric stood motionless at the top of the hill, facing him.

He opened his mouth as if to speak but the wind washed over the words, sifting too, through the tufts of his brown hair.

"What?" Harry said. Cedric came closer.

"Are you curious?" he asked, again. Harry felt his heart drop into a bottomless chasm.

"What do you mean?"

But even he knew that his voice sounded unusually high; more than anything it was as if, in this very moment, Cedric could _exactly_ read his mind and it made Harry fear that he had thought everything out loud.

_Are you curious? _Cedric said.

He had left it unfinished.

_Are you curious about me and Cho?_

They had departed from the Owlery briskly.

Hedwig had barely launched into the air before Cedric came, asking keenly, if they could go.

Outside the tower, the descent was no longer doused in that warm, dreamy sunlight and Cedric's face betrayed neither a smile nor a frown—he only walked at a pace fast enough to leave his friend stumbling after, while he retreated inside his own head, brooding; weighing the last ten minutes in the measures of his heartrate and wondering to himself whether Cho had liked Harry for a while, or all along.

And perhaps, the worry lined his face.

It was unsettling that he could barely read his own emotions: Cedric wouldn't even look directly at Harry, instead, he let his impulsiveness drift in the air between them; a question unfinished and yet not needing the rest of the words to convey intent, and yet here he was—inwardly floundering.  
Looking for excuses because he could not even understand _his own_ intent.

"You were there," Cedric started, filling the silence. His fingers reached to smooth down the back of his neck. "It was... erm..."

"A bit stiff?"

A small laugh, "Uncomfortable, yeah."

"It was... well yes, you aren't _wrong,"_ Harry admitted, casually. They continued to walk—together this time—as he spoke, bordering the edge of the hill. "It was sort-of unbelievable that you still remembered her mum's birthday."

Cedric gave an embarrassed laugh, despite it all.

He agreed.

Cho's face in particular was memorable. Her eyes lit up in soft surprise before something more clumsy had set in.

"We've been friends a long time," he said, blinking into a ray of sunlight that hit his face. "She tends to forget things when Quidditch starts up."

"... I didn't know," said Harry, and he waited, watching as the small smile faded on Cedric's face.

This was strange.

He thought all of this, as undoubtedly strange.

When Cedric had turned to him, face hardened atop the hill, he had asked, _"Are you curious?"_ while looking like he didn't want answer to the question at all.

It left Harry feeling uneasy; like he was facing a knife that spun so fast, you wouldn't know _if_ it would even stab you.

"I overheard a bit," he confessed, for it felt wrong not to, "When you were talking by the window… I-I couldn't help catching some parts."

Cedric blanched, though his stride never faltered, "How much?"

"Just the end, I suppose… About you, erm, _'blaming yourself,'_" Harry said, almost inaudibly. Cedric gave a slow nod.

The wind picked up around them and tension as thin as fish-wire wound with the lure to walk almost faster—Cedric's long legs giving in to gravity as he dashed down the slope, the red sweater fluttering from the crook of his elbow—Harry struggled to follow, still trying to piece together the fragments of conversation he had unwittingly eavesdropped, trying to figure out what he had missed. But abruptly, they stopped: Cedric came to a halt at the bottom of the hill and nearly caused Harry to crash into him, a second time—

"Would you like to know?" he said, spinning around, "About how we broke up?"

"What?" Harry took a step back, "No!"

"Don't fib—"

"—I am not _fibbing."_ said Harry, lying louder. The woodland around them began to stir; birds and animals skittered through the forest floor, calling to each other, browned leaves skipping from the backs of their feet. It suddenly felt wrong for him to raise his voice here.

"I just…" Harry's brow furrowed. "You worry me. For a while now, you look like you're troubled by something and it makes me nervous somehow… how quiet you are about it,"

Cedric did not reply. He looked like he was doing the equivalent of acrobatic calculations inside his head, which only spurred on Harry's rambling.

"You keep asking about… Is it Cho? Are you worried or—something rather—about her?" he said carefully. "Because, I get it if you do, I—I get it."

_"Am I worried about Cho?"_ Cedric echoed, the mist raised from his eyes as something seemingly clicked. He let a hand that cupped his chin, fall to the side. "Somewhat… yeah, somewhat… I have to ask, do—do you…?"

"Yes?"

Cedric looked slightly strained, "Do you like her? Cho."

_"I'm sorry?"_

Harry twisted forward, taken aback, only to find that Cedric was already looking; regarding him with a wary expression on his face.

"I… I said, do you—… No, sorry. That was _stupid_. Forget I said…forget it," Cedric's gaze flickered, as he stumbled through his sentence, not knowing where to look, where to rest. "I didn't say anything."

At once, Harry felt something lurch from inside him, frantic and simmering, trying to match Cedric's sincerity.

"No," he said.

"Sorry?"

"No, I don't _think_ I like her,"

"You don't?"

Harry felt Cedric stare, the colour rising to his cheeks and he forced his gaze away, staring hard into the gnarled neck of a tree, twenty feet ahead.

"That is... well… _I don't know,_" he mumbled, "I don't know whether I do or not."

The question itself was strange to hear, just out and bare, unhidden between them; and the fact that it was _Cedric_ asking, made Harry feel even more peculiar.

"Why?" he said, almost as if he didn't believe it.

Vexed, Harry let loose a string of words he would soon regret.

"Well, why did _you_ break up with her?"

The breeze piled a little heavier, picking up discarded leaves and tacking them to Harry's jeans, while the greys of Cedrics eyes almost seemed to glaze over in response—looking into a different set of surroundings—thickening into an opaque tangle of smoke and darkness that coiled and melted into glimpses of a pale body that lapsed through cracked tombstones. Harry had scarcely searched the face in front of him before he, in moments, grasped an answer; and Cedric had changed, falling from the world and now back into the boy who had sat curled up in the dark corner of an old drawing room.

"I didn't want to, really," he whispered, as soon the wind dissipated. "It was only that… too much changed. Too much has changed since last year, too much has—... it's different now, isn't it? It _was_ different, all of.. everything, as soon as we came back."

All the 'firsts' came back to him, those _first_ nights, the _first_ dreamings; the first time he ever felt the contents of his mind press onto his skin and puncture through, like he only _a thing_ made of soft cloth.

Two round faces—his parent's faces—flashed in his mind's eye, of when they first found him—cradled in his own sweat, vomit on his bedroom floor. There was the frame of Evan's hulking body, shaking over his bound body in the bed, and Hidiyah who trembled as she took his face into her scarred hands; the first time they visited the hospital wing. And then there was Cho, the alarm—the _fright_ on her face when he first had screamed at her—the sound she made when she dropped her wand, how it sank into the carpet, its end pooling in a light that was just **too green** **and**_… ah._

A summer day.

Cedric had stuck a palm against his forehead like he was nursing another a headache, but in actuality, he couldn't bear to face it. He couldn't face _her._

The words were coming out of his mouth and yet he had no courage to bear her teary, brown eyes.

"My parents, they don't have the luxury of being able to leave me," he said, softly. The darkness faded and it was if, he himself, returned to the land of the living, "but Cho, my friends… Back then, when the world changed, I thought it would be fairer to them if they were to just leave me—even if they didn't see it as an opportunity at the time."

"And Cho did?"

"I asked her to. I asked her to… And she was, or, still is… _angry_ about it, _ha, _she's still very…" Cedric cast his gaze downward, "I always thought that it was because I had made the choice without talking to her, but I was wrong—"

_"I certainly didn't agree to ending things because **I** blamed you."_

"I'm the only one blaming myself. It didn't matter that it was 'fair' or that she'd be safer—I'd already made the choice _for _her."

The brief image Cho's tired face, and her flat voice toward the end. Glassy eyes that stared out the tower window, welling—….

Cedric shook his head, his voice was now low and small and barely noticeable.

"I'd apologize again, but it'd just make things worse—!" he gave a little laugh here, but it sounded more his throat had choked up, "And I still can't help feeling that… that she deserves better than me, right now—I can't shake that."

For what it was worth his chest, though unravelled, felt like a much lighter load on his body.

It was a rare sensation, to feel so unburdened, and to feel like he was not _burdensome._

"Yeah," said Harry. Cedric peeked at him and saw memories—different to his, but only by arrangement and trifles—he watched them replay inside Harry's head: a ghostly pallid body, skin writhing raw against rope. A leg injury that bled through his robes, the smell of caustic chemical and burning bile at the back of your throat; a sallow hand, overgrown fingernails that scratched and _burned_—all of it streamed out, connecting to his own.

They looked back at each other, in acknowledgement.

Both pained and comforted in the recognition of their own reflections.

"Yeah, I understand," said Harry, finally. You could almost hear how his heart clenched in his voice, but the sound of it became buried in another fleeting stir of wind and scuttling leaves.

"Of course you do," Cedric said. He did not smile but affection lay plain on his face, "Of course, you do."

_I'm glad that someone does. I'm glad that **you **do._

Fresh sunlight came down, streaming, panes of brightness that cast shadow long against the brae. The fog had seemingly dissolved to the ground, and whatever makeshift forest surrounded them turned into a sea of ardent green and ochre.

There was more to be said but not really.

Truthfully it could not be said in the traditional way of words, rather Harry and Cedric could say anything or nothing at all and still bask in this unnamed feeling that emanated, just by being near the other.

Harry began to frown, "I'm so sorry," he said, unexpectedly.  
"It was an awful thing to ask you that… insensitive."

"I did promise to tell you," said Cedric, but Harry shook his head with vigour.

"That's no excuse," and then hesitantly, "Still. I didn't actually think that _you_… I thought she—"

"—broke up with me?"

"Yes."

Cedric gave a glum smile, "She would've never left me, otherwise."

"Hm…"

"Mm."

"… Do you miss her?"

Cedric inhaled sharply, dumbfounded by the question.

"Oh, erm—! You, you don't have to say,"

"No, no. I want to, it's just… I think, _I do_, sometimes. I miss how she made me feel. How it felt to be together," he scratched his face, looking far, across to where the grove grew even thinner. "Though I suppose, that's not the same as missing _her."_

"I don't think that makes your feelings any less."

"It doesn't make what I did any right either."

They stayed quiet a while, soaking in the growth of uninterrupted sound from the woods and wallowing in that nameless feeling; comfort, affection, trust—call it what you want—it was all that and more.

Then Harry had a thought.

"Are you pleased to know that I'm not pining for your ex-girlfriend now?" he said. He was teasing, of course, an attempt to try and lighten the mood and yet; he was half-not.

In Cedric's case, he paused as if to seriously consider it.

"Yes." he said, finally. A certain mirth splayed out on his face. "Very."

_"Oh." _

Cedric looked up, "We should go. At least while the wind's still lively," and he turned to Harry, concerned, "You still have training later, don't you? Angelina and Ron won't happy if you miss another."

"How'd you figure that?"

"When we waited for you, Ron was very clear about it last night."

Harry snorted, "It's all he's cared about lately," and they walked on. He was pleased that everything had categorically returned back to ordinary, and felt even more thrilled that Cedric seemed to unwind; his gait and expression were now looser compared what he had left the Owlery with. But as they rounded closer to the wooden bridge, walking across the knoll that wound down to Hagrid's hut, the clock tower's low peal ringing as another hour hit—

Harry felt a slight disquiet persist at the back of his head.

When he turned to speak to his friend about it, the wind abruptly picked up again and blew away all the brown hair from Cedric's eyes and forehead, in a similar bursting fashion that they had encountered by Owlery window. This time, however, Cedric erupted with sudden laughter: his sweater billowed around his waist and the sleeves and neckline of his shirt were loose and rippling like sails against his fair skin.

Harry watched, mesmerized, as Cedric laughed. His arms were out, as if to embrace the whole sky without care and then—as if he had thought of something better to do—Cedric turned to him with a familiar, wide grin.

It was the kind that pulled his eyes into crescents, his face ignited with earnest and brilliance in the rush of air, surrounded by the shades of a distant scanting emerald canopy and a heavens full of sun; warm and dreamlike.

Cedric reached out—and Harry felt delighted that he did so—latching an arm around his neck; Harry, in return, gripping around his waist. Together, they squeezed, laughing, _half-screaming_ until the roar of the gale had died down and all around had become calm once more.

"Merlin! Someone's _really _got it in for us—!" Cedric cried, out of breath. He threw his head back and clutched at his aching sides, cheeks rosy and windswept, sweat sticking small baby hairs to his forehead; and the remnants of the pure elation he had just experienced, lingered on the curve of his lip.

Harry felt his heart beat wildly from the look of him alone, and he could not stop thinking about Cedric's sudden laughter, how it rang—a deep and clear melody—and the way his figure surrendered, honest to the chaos of air swirling around him. Cedric had grinned, fresh-faced, reaching out for him so naturally and Harry felt disquiet that lay in his head, _strengthen..._ it began to dig and gnaw.

All the questions that he had avoided for 'later' simmered inside him and as he swallowed, staring, pumped with adrenaline and wonder for his friend, while a feeling of foreboding came crashing right through. He had not asked why.

He had not asked Cedric _why_ he felt glad that Harry would not pursue Cho, for there were only be _two answers_ to that question.

_It doesn't matter, _Harry thought forcefully, _it wouldn't matter which one it is, what would be important is—hm?_

At an inkling he looked up, just as he felt the weight of Cedric's arm on his shoulders again, pulling him in until their sides pressed against each other.

"Alright?" Cedric said, he gave another boyish smile. Harry felt his heart leap.

"Alright," he lied.

Perhaps the answer would matter _a little more_ than he could admit.


	33. Head in Flames

_"It's fine, Hermione. It's not like they're being hunted on school grounds… look, there he is now_ — Harry!"

Stone walls washed in sunlight, flooding from a giant window as Harry strolled through the aisles, just able to pick out the voice that called to him over the usual din of the Great Hall. The smell of fresh bread, rice and bacon wafted, a terrible temptation growling in his stomach, and in one practiced move: Harry circled the corner and swooped into the seat in front of his friends with Cedric in tow, balancing a plate of buttered scones and hot chocolate he had taken from Hufflepuff's table onto the Gryffindor one.

"Morning," Harry said, he watched Hermione's bright expression momentarily flicker—aghast—as she took a closer look at them. "What is it?"

Ron, who was looking over Cedric in surprise, glanced at him as well and grinned impishly.

"Rough winds out there?" he asked.

It had been less than a quarter hour since Cedric and Harry stumbled into the Great Hall. They were blustered and looked like some fearsome storm had battered them outside—the hair thrown perpetually from their heads and their shirts rumpled as if crammed into a suitcase, unfolded, for a few days prior. Looking between the both them, however, Harry felt certain that Cedric wore it as well as he did everything—ah.  
Harry shook his head. _Act normal._

Self-consciously, he grabbed a chunk of his fringe and forced it in front of his scar, mumbling, "… would you believe me if I said we got into a fight with some weather wizards living in the clouds?"

Ron burst out in raucous laughter, "Must've lost the battle sorely if you're looking like _that—!"_

"No, no, they did a favour—the wind looks good on you," Cedric insisted. Harry felt his teeth clack against porcelain as the lip his mug tilted a little too far inside his mouth.

"You'll only make it _worse _if you—ah—eh—… are you alright?" Hermione looked at him, startled, as Harry began to choke on his drink.

"'m f-fine—!" he coughed. Pumpkin juice dribbled clumsily from his chin into his sleeve and sputtering, he looked around, darting for a change in subject. "Look, erm, what… what were you two looking at, before—what's _that?"_ he pointed at the spread of parchment on the table that Hermione and Ron had bent over before they arrived, and as his friends straightened up—giving him a clear view—he realized; it was a copy of The Daily Prophet.

"Did something happen?"

Instead of immediately answering, Hermione whipped her head side to side. Leaning over the table, she whispered, "Did you manage to send—?"

"I did," Harry whispered back.

"But you didn't have any trouble? I heard that Filch was prowling, trying to look for the people who sent Dungbombs around school… you didn't _actually_ write 'Sirius Black' on the envelope right?"

Harry shook his head. He almost wished that it _were_ Filch that intruded on the morning and felt Cedric shift beside him.

_Act normal._

"No, I-I wrote 'Snuffles' on the envelope… nothing _suspect _happened, if that's what you're asking… hopefully, I'll get a reply tomorrow but—wait, what's going on?" he eyed Ron and Hermione's tense faces. "Why are you asking these things?"

Hermione swallowed, her expression, pale. She tapped onto the two pages of The Prophet spread out underneath her elbow, its crimped headlines and moving black figures a faded blur under layers of sunlight, and in a hesitant voice, she whispered, "It's _Sirius…"_

Wordlessly, Harry snatched at the paper in such a violent way that it ripped straight down the middle; he and Hermione were effectively holding half of an article each as he began to read—

_"'The Ministry of Magic has received a tip-off from a reliable source that Sirius Black, notorious mass murderer... blah blah blah... is currently hiding_ in **London**?!'" he said in an anguished whisper.

"It's Lucius Malfoy, I'll bet anything!" said Ron in a low, furious voice. "You said that he recognized Sirius on the platform!"

"Shh!"

_"… 'Minister warns Wizarding community that Black is very dangerous... killed thirteen people... broke out of Azkaban...'_ the usual rubbish…" Harry concluded, and he lay down the paper, looking at it, as if it specifically threatened him. There was a deep dread that seized his body and only when he felt Cedric grasp his arm, as if to try and pull him out of his stupor, was Harry able to find his ability speak.

"What… what does this mean?"

"Most likely, he won't be able to leave the house again," Hermione murmured. "Dumbledore did warn him not to and now—"

Harry looked down glumly at the bit of the Prophet he had torn off, _"Shit."_

"—but they haven't found him yet, right?" said Cedric, reassuringly, "Professor Lupin wouldn't _let_ them."

"Yeah, he's got a roof over his head!" said Ron. "Instead of roughing it up and hunting with Buckbeak, my mum'll probably be cooking him _real_ food, too,"

"He's hidden by _Dumbledore's _magic, of all things, so it's not to say his safety is _in danger_. Even without it, I'd say he's much better off than living in caves like before."

Cedric's mellow expression quickly fell into one of confusion and alarm: his eyes wide, and the question '_Should I ask?' _so visibly on the tip of his tongue that Harry had to give a small, and shaky laugh.

"Except…" and his smile drooped, "he did seem much _happier_ feasting on rats and sleeping in caves over his haunted childhood home—"

"Harry!"

"No, he's right," said Ron.

"He might be safe, but… Sirius won't take this _'well'_," Harry said, carrying on. There was a small part of his fear that had dissipated, not threatening to overtake him in the moment, but he could feel it prod from inside his stomach like a piece of lead. "He hates Grimmauld more than anything, and now he's… _confined _to it?"

"Well, maybe they'll move him elsewhere… I'm sure he'll be as lively as ever! You'll see… when he replies," Hermione urged.

"Yeah. Sure," said Harry, weakly. Silence followed this, sullen and dreary, because no one knew what to say.

Harry felt Cedric's hand leave his arm, and briefly, he wondered whether he should have reciprocated that comforting pressure. Would he have done so before?  
Despite that holding the thought in his mind, Harry could neither figure out nor remember what his 'normal' ways of interaction were with Cedric.

Maybe, before this point, that Harry would have held onto his hand.  
This Harry certainly really wished he had. But instead, his eyes trailed down the rest of his page, spotting another article: one that announced a familiar name, _Sturgis Podmore_, and recounted his alleged break-in into The Ministry.

Harry was busy reading the article aloud, that he barely registered a knee knock and gently rest against his own, under the table.

* * *

A little while later, Cedric sat mounted on a broom, adrift and pushing back ever so slightly as his legs hung in a swaying breeze.

It had been a while since he had seen the pitch with his own eyes, the rafters of the stands and its platforms still felt as welcoming as ever, towering structures wrapped in the smell of broom shine, varnish, leather and Quaffle grease, and the sunlight here still bouncing too brightly against fluttering flags and house banners.  
There was familiarity cradled here, one he had never thought to have missed until he flew out to the open pitch, staring at everything in a sudden grip of wonder. It felt like so much time had passed, and truthfully, he was not sure he was even supposed to _be_ here.

Ron had insisted Cedric come to his early Quidditch practice, saying _"C'mon, you can stay on the ground! I just need a __**Captain's **__eye on me!" _as the nerves jumped between his fingers. And while Harry did not _openly_ object to this: he gave a noticeably standoffish smile when Cedric gave in, actually, Harry had barely glanced at him at all since they got back to the castle.

If it were not for Angelina, Cedric would have already left.  
She and Hermione had caught him at the entrance, shoving old broomstick from the stadium's closet into his hands, pushing him back inside and now here he was: watching as a little further away from him, the Gryffindor Quidditch team warmed up—Angelina, Katie, George and Fred passing the Quaffle to and fro before eventually one of them decided to aim toward the tall hoops which were… _unsuccessfully _being guarded_._

From afar, Cedric watched Ron's ginger crop of hair ignite as he dove to grab a Quaffle that had just bounced off his fingers, executing a clumsy pull away from the ground before shakily, he rose to everyone else's height again. Even from this distance, Cedric could see that Ron's face was the same colour scarlet as his robes, and it certainly didn't help that there was a crew of Slytherins jeering from the side-lines as well; they seemed to be the only sources of sound that echoed in the pitch beside the wind, Angelina's constant shouting to _'Ignore them!'_ and, Harry's soft groans.

Cedric hovered closer to him, "Wasn't he was playing well earlier…?"

"Yeah it's… it's his first time in front of the others—"

"Ah,"

"—he's generally fairly good when he's not overthink…. pass it, _not like that—!_ Oh no…"

In his desperation to get rid of the ball, Ron threw the ball at Katie, who did not realize until she took the ball straight to with her face.

_"OW—!"_

"Sorry! Sorry! Merlin, I'm so—!" Ron zoomed forward to see whether he had done any damage before Angelina put out a hand.

"Get back in position, she's fine!" she barked, "But as you're passing to a teammate, do try not to knock her off her broom, won't you? We've got Bludgers for that!"

"Yes!"

The Slytherins began hooting with laughter. Fred converged onto Katie, handing her something small and purple from out of his pocket. "Here, take this, it should clear it up in no time."

"All right!" called Angelina, "Fred, George, go and get your bats and a Bludger; Harry, release the Snitch when I say so. We're going to aim for Ron's goal, obviously."

Harry soared off after the twins to fetch the Snitch while Angelina discreetly motioned for Cedric to fly closer, her eyes never leaving Ron as she muttered to him.

"What do you think?"

"Hm?"

"What do you think about our new Keeper? Be honest."

"Well… he's making a lot of rookie mistakes…"

"Closer to making a right pig's ear of things—"

"—He's just _nervous,"_ said Cedric. "Ron played quite well when he practiced with me and Harry, earlier—… weren't _you_ nervous on _your_ first training?"

Angelina grumbled. "But I thought it'd be better since his brothers were here! Thought it'd feel more like a home game for him or something, but I guess… those damned Slytherins_—Merlin!"_

"Want them to quieten down?"

"At this point, I feel like I'd have to hack my own ears off first, ugh—"Angelina rubbed her head in frustration before she pointed off toward the stands— "Never mind, look, here."

Cedric reached out as something silver flashed in the air. It was a tin whistle.

"Don't worry it's not been used. We're about to do a practice game so feel free to watch and ref us or something from over there… I don't need the Bludger accidentally knocking your teeth in."

"Sure, erm… did I even _need_ to be on a broom this whole time?"

"Nah."

"Then why…?"

She grinned, "It feels good, right?"

Taken aback, Cedric stared at her for moment before he began to laugh dumbly, "You aren't entirely wrong!"

He quickly returned to the Hufflepuff platform and shed his Quidditch robes, before walking out into the stands and trying to find Hermione. Nearing the benches where the Slytherins occupied, he watched as Harry and the twins flew out of a neighbouring gate, returning to the air. Almost instantaneously, you could hear the mockery that erupted from front of the benches as they flew by.

"Hey, Potter, how's your scar feeling?" Malfoy taunted. "Sure you don't need a lie-down? It must be, what, _a whole week_ since you were in the hospital wing, that's a record for you, isn't it?"

_"_Shut it _git!"_ yelled George.

"Careful Weasley, I don't think _you _can afford another detention!" Malfoy yelled back. Crabbe and Boyle began to howl with laughter and stamp their feet.

"Why _you—!"_

"Easy, George! Don't! We'll get them during the season, c'mon!" Harry said firmly, though his expression was easily just as dark. They flew into the field and returned to their positions, where Harry strayed a good twenty feet away from the rest of the team. He avoided looking at the Slytherin stand as much as he could and hovered closer to the opposite end, near the edge of the pitch.

"Hey!" someone called.

Harry looked.

At first glance he saw Hermione hurrying through the walkway behind the seats, bundled in scarves, as well as what looked like several sweaters, rubbing her gloved hands together. But then, a few metres in front of her, Cedric waved at him wildly.

"Good luck!" he shouted, cheeks still red from flying. Harry smiled.

_Act normal…_ he thought. He could barely count how many times this had flash through his head._ Normal. _

He gave a slight nod before dashing away, the sound of George's voice calling his name from afar.

"Cedric!"

"Oh, Hermione! There you are," Cedric walked over to her, and without taking his eyes off the Slytherins crowding at the front, he said, "Do you fancy a little more of walk?"

On the pitch, Angelina swept her long braided hair out of her face, the outline of her red and gold robes striking against the sky and the calmness of her expression replicated in every other player in the air, as they all slipped into focus. From the stands, Pansy Parkinson shrieked, _"Hey Johnson, what's with that hairstyle?! Why would anyone want to look like they've got worms coming out of their head?"_

But none of that mattered. Because though she had spoken very harsh and very loudly—no clear words came out from her lips, not without the very syllables already warped and twisted, dreadful notes in the air—like Pansy Parkinson had sung a warbled and very shaky tune instead of shouting out clear and very unkind insults.

_"What the—! Oi, Johnson! OI! Draco, what's going on—!?"_

_"I-I don't know! It's happening to me too!"_

_"What!?"_

_"I can't—" _

_"Why can't we talk?!"_

Hermione muffled laughter in her gloves as Cedric slipped his wand back into the inner pockets of his coat. At the front of the seats, Draco Malfoy and his friends brimmed with panic: they clutched at their throats and squealed at each other—the discordant music growing in its cacophony—even though they were breathing quite well and could make sense of both their own words and each-other, just fine.

With Hermione along, Cedric walked quickly away, deciding to sit inside an entirely different stand. He rest against the rickety wooden seat, unable to keep a satisfied smile from creeping across his face. From next door, however, the Slytherin's warped voices were barely muffled through the walls. Now was the final step.

_"Muffliato."_

The sound disappeared.

"I _have_ to learn that one," said Hermione. The cold wind blew, and she burrowed her hands inside her pockets, "It must be such a useful spell! If only _Umbridge_ weren't here…"

"I'll have to teach you, then," he said.

"Will you?!"

Cedric laughed: Hermione looked like she was shaking with excitement in her seat. "Remind me to—later,"

"Okay!"

"Oi Diggory! You ready yet?!" came a shout from the pitch. Cedric leaned against the railing and looked out, he did not know who the voice belonged to, but readily held a tin whistle to his lips; the other hand holding out a thumbs-up in the open air.

"Spread out!" Angelina shouted. She flew around the stadium, feeling briefly confused when she could not hear the usual Slytherin voices clamouring at her, but paid it no mind. "Let's see what we can do..."

Obediently, Harry and the rest of team reversed away from each other; George and Fred at the ready with their bats; Katie with the Quaffle against her hip, her other hand covering her nose; Ron holding the front of his broom in a death-grip and Harry; hovering above the far side of the pitch, patiently waiting for the signal.

There was only the creak of the metal hoops bracing against the wind, and the beat of flapping banners and flags. Except for Ron—who was rapidly blinking—everyone slipped into an atmosphere of complete and utter concentration, their composure mirrored the stillness of the empty sky above.

When Angelina finally signalled for it, Cedric blew, and a clear and high-pitched whistle rang across the pitch. Harry released the Snitch from his hand and the twins let fly the Bludger and _everyone_ jumped into action—brooms hurtling through the air, every cog clicking into their place—Harry barely aware of what the others were doing as he rocketed through the field, knowing only that it was _his_ job to recapture the tiny golden ball and that somewhere out there, somewhere within the stands; Cedric was watching.

He accelerated, rolling, and swerving up and down, the autumn air turned warm and whipping at his face, those distant calls, and yells of his team-mates so meaningless against the bellowing in his ears.

Meanwhile, within the stands, Cedric could barely do the job he was meant to do; so often were his eyes caught by the sight of Harry traveling at what looked like _breakneck_ speeds, his body just a flurry of red robes gunning after faint glimmers of golden light, as if the both of them were directly connected by thread.

At some point, the Snitch flew into and _through_ the stands. Cedric just able to catch its flurry of wings with a passing glance before it was gone just as quickly. It came as no surprise to him, however, when Harry dutifully followed behind seconds later, barrelling through, his intensive gaze distracted for the moment as he spiralled through the air—lithe and one with the movement of his broom, the wind roaring through his black hair—he made eye contact with Cedric who caught sight of the beginnings of one wide grin spread across Harry's face. And then…

Gone.

Cedric was right though, in fact, he had never felt _more_ right.

The wind _did _look good on him.

But too soon, he had to whistle again, bringing it all to a halt as Angelina screamed, "Stop—stop—STOP! _RON!_ You're not covering your middle post!"

Looping back around, Harry looked around at Ron, who hovered in front of the left-hand hoop, leaving the other two completely unprotected.

"Oh... sorry..."

"You keep shifting around while you're watching the Chasers!" said Angelina. "Either stay in centre position until you have to move to defend a hoop or else _circle_ the hoops, but don't drift vaguely off to one side, that's how you let in the last three goals!"

"Sorry..." Ron repeated, his red face shining like a beacon against the bright blue sky.

"And Katie—" Angelina wheeled around, and her annoyance completely dropped to shock— _"Merlin!"_

"Sorry! I think it's gotten worse," said Katie thickly. Harry had not even realized that her nose was _still_ _bleeding._

She tried desperately to stem the flow with her sleeve which had grown significantly darker than before, while behind her, Fred anxiously checked his pockets. He pulled out something purple and examined it for a second before quickly looking to Katie, horror-struck.

"Erm… I think... she might need the hospital wing," he said, flying forward.

"What did you give me?"

"First, promise me you won't be _mad,"_

"What did you give her?!" Angelina demanded.

"I said, don't be mad!" Fred put his hands up defensively, "She just… _may _have… swallowed a thing we call the _Blood Blisterpod_ by mistake—"

"Guys…" Katie said, she was starting to look a little woozy, swaying slightly on her broom. Her nosebleed was getting worse, "Don't fight, please,"

"Bloody hell—"

"Okay, okay! Look _someone _needs to take her to the hospital wing," Angelina flew to Katie's side, steadying her and staring pointedly at Fred and George until they nodded along, "and there's not much point if we don't have a Chaser and our Beaters so… let's just _stop_… for the day…" she said, unhappily.

Katie shook her head, "It's alright, I can just go by myself—"

"There'll be none of that happening, c'mon, let's just go; we'll take you, okay?" Angelina put a hand on Katie's shoulder and turned to the team, "Everyone, go and change, we'll take Katie to the hospital wing and just make up for lost time today in next week's training. _Make sure_… that you're _all_ prepared, 'right?"

In the low murmured chorus of agreement, Harry quickly noticed that Angelina's gaze lingered heavily over Ron in her last few words.

Judging from the way he avoided eye contact afterward, it seemed that he had noticed it too.

Half an hour later, Ron and Harry left the others in the hospital wing and walked up the stairs to the Gryffindor portrait hole, dragging their Quidditch brooms behind them. Hermione already was waiting for them in the common room as they climbed through and Harry felt almost _surprised_ that Cedric was not sitting there as well, waiting with her.

"How was practice?" she asked innocently.

"Well, you know, it was—"

"—completely _lousy,"_ said Ron in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looked up at Ron with concern.

"Well, it was only your first one," she said consolingly, "it's only bound to take some time to—"

"Who said it was _me_ who made it lousy?" snapped Ron.

"No one," said Hermione, looking taken aback, "I just thought—"

"You just thought I was bound to be rubbish?"

"No, of course I didn't! Look, I was there and—"

"You were _there?_" Ron turned to her, baffled, "You, Hermione Granger, were voluntarily _watching?"_

Hermione crossed her arms, "I don't know if I like what you're implying right now…"

"Did you not see her? She came when it started," Harry looked at Ron, puzzled, "she was sitting right next Cedric in the stands,"

"Oh." Ron's face dropped. "Right. _Cedric."_

"He wasn't the reason I was there!"

"Well, don't worry Hermione even if you're wanting to get closer to him, _'it's only bound to take __**some**__ time!'_" shot Ron, mimicking her voice. He stood and walked across, firmly gripping onto his broom, "You got through Krum in a matter of only a couple months, after all!"

Dumbstruck, Harry stared at his friend, "Erm. Hang on, that's not—!"

"—That isn't _fair_, Ron." Hermione looked out indignantly, her eyebrows wrinkled in the way it did whenever she was _truly_ upset. Almost as soon as Ron turned, he lost all the harshness that piled up in his freckled face and looked off to the other side of the room.

"… No… it wasn't… I'm sorry," he said, in a low voice. "It's… you're right. I _was_ lousy at practice… you saw it,"

"It wasn't so bad—"

"Ha!"

_"—really." _

When Ron didn't respond, Hermione looked around, unsure of how to comfort him. "Erm… would you like some help with the homework?"

"No, no. I'll just…" Ron sighed. "Leave me alone for a bit. I'll get started on it on my own."

Swiftly, he walked off to the staircase to the boys' dormitories, vanishing from sight. From behind, Harry stared bewilderedly after him and then glanced to Hermione, her stoic face ruined only by the troubled crease of her brow.

"That… was _new," _Harry said.

"Yes, well…" Hermione closed her book, "You keep telling us not to fight and… it's probably sound advice."

"Hm."

"What _did _happen at the end of the practice? It sounded like Angelina got _livid—"_

"Yeah… he wasn't protecting the other hoops, but that's not the reason why we stopped—Katie's nosebleed got worse,"

"The one that Ron gave—?"

"Yes, but it wasn't—it didn't get _worse_ because of him—she would've been fine, I think if not for… for Fred and, erm, his sweets…" Hermione's eyes slanted when Harry said this, but he pretended not to notice, "I should go and see if he's alright."

"Yes, it would be better if he hears from you... Will you come down afterwards?"

"Erm, if you want me to, sure. I don't know, erm, if I can drag Ron down here though…"

"That's fine," something flickered in Hermione's eyes, "I just… I don't like studying in the dormitory anymore. Not with Lavender and the others around…"

Harry slowly nodded. "Right. Yeah, yeah, I'll come down."

"Thank you. Oh, by the way," Hermione threw her head back, as Harry began to circle around her armchair. "Cedric didn't get to say it, since we left before you all did, but he said you were really cool on the broom today. I did not even know the Snitch had passed by when you flew in like that, and Cedric was _quite—_… Harry? _Oh!"_

Not realizing where he was walking, Harry tripped over the fringe of the rug and fell against a few scrolls of parchment that been laid out and held down by books on the floor. Straight away, he jumped up as best he could but still looked unsteady on his feet.

"Are you alright!"

"I'm fine! I'm fine! I didn't mess up your work, did I?" Harry spun around, fervidly looking for pages ruined by rips or blank ink smeared on the carpet.

"Err—! No, no, it's looks all fine but... H-Harry, your arm…" Hermione pointed to the side of his forearm, where several pieces of paper had become stuck, ink gluing them onto his skin.

"Don't worry, just erm…" Harry thrust his arm up and down through the air, trying to get the parchment off his arm but it seemed that the wet ink had perfectly attuned to it. "This wasn't a part of your work was it?"

"No, I think the bottle just spilt on those when you fell and—"

"I'll clean this up when I come down then, erm… tell—tell Cedric I said _'thanks'_, I guess,"

"You could just tell him that, yourself… the next time you see him," Hermione said, slowly.

"Right, right, sorry… erm… I'll be back soon," Harry said and without knowing what to do, he simply walked toward the dormitory, papers and all still stuck on his skin.

Hermione stared bewilderedly after him.

"Can't you just peel it off?"

* * *

As he entered the dormitory, Harry put his Firebolt back into its case under his bed, before he quietly walked to the end of Ron's bed, which had been curtained off to the rest of the room.

"Ron?" he heard a low grunt, "You alright?"

Silence.

"… Come on, Ron,"

Absolute silence.

Harry sighed. He stood there and waited, one minute, two, three.

"Alright, well… I'll be downstairs with Hermione if you need anything then..." he said dispassionately. He grabbed the books on his desk and nearly passed through doorway when he heard the curtain draw back suddenly, and his friend's voice call out—

"Harry?"

"Yeah?"

"I should've defended you in class," said Ron softly.

"What?"

"In our first Defence Against the Dark Arts class, with that… that _woman."_ the bed shifted, "What kind of prefect am I? We're literally supposed to stand between the students and bullies… people _like_ Umbridge,"

Harry turned. The curtain was a thick red cloth and he could not see much without the sun shining through the room, but as he walked around, he saw Ron sit at the end of his bed: a torn expression. He was hugging his arms too.

"What… what are you talking about, that was—… she's a _teacher, _not a student, you wouldn't have been able to do anything, you _can't _do anything."

"You did."

"… I shouted at her."

"Yeah, and I could've helped. It might've not meant anything in the long run—maybe the same detention, or-or my badge getting taken away—but it would've meant something to _you_. And, I didn't." Ron shook his head in disgust, "I sat there like everyone else… I'm sorry." 

"This is stupid—"

"—It's not _stupid!"_ Ron said, raising his voice. "You were right in Grimmauld, I'm thick, I'm dim! Let me… let me apologise for that,_ at least."_

Harry stared him, astonished. "You're a good prefect, Ron. You deserve it, _way _more than I or any of the other guys ever would,"

"You don't have to be nice, Harry, next time I swear, I'll—"

"I'm! Not! Being! Nice!" Harry almost laughed, "You have to be thick if you don't realize—… you don't realize how _great_ you are."

Ron looked away, shaking his head. He did not speak.

"… I think you'd still make a really great Keeper, even after today."

"You think?"

"Yeah," Harry sat down beside him. "I've seen you play for years, have a little faith."

"Yeah… yeah, I _have_ been playing with you, George and Fred for ages—I'm not bad_._"

"You're more than _not bad, _you're good! Just—just… you have to stop overthinking it," Harry's hands gripped at his knees, "About Keeping, about being a… _bad_ prefect—it's... it's simply not _true._ You're great. I wouldn't—I _couldn't_ ask for anything more."

"... Thanks Harry," Ron turned to him, it was rare to see his gaze so serious and devoid of its usual ease, and he had the sinking feeling that his friend had not taken his words on. Harry could see it, in that mirthless light of those eyes: Ron could not believe it, in fact he was _choosing _not to believe it. And Harry could not do anything about that.

"Take it as you will," he said, quietly.

"I will," said Ron, he had listened and that was all Harry could hope for as he nodded along. They sat there for a still moment, the silence passing by.

"Can I tell you something?" asked Ron.

"'Course."

"Listen, I know that Cedric's your _new best friend_ now or whatever but—"

"You're wrong, he _isn't._ He's just…" Harry paused, unable to find the word or have it come to the top of his mind.

Ron looked him knowingly, "He understands you."

"Yeah… yeah, he does."

"Well, all I'm saying is, Hermione and I—we're here for you too, you know that?" Ron threw his hands up, "We're not gonna understand a hundred percent of the time, but… we'll try, right?"

"Yeah,"

"We were here from the start, alright?"

"Yeah, I know," Harry laughed a little now.

"You can't forget _us, _alright? We're the originals!"

"Yes, yes, alright!" Harry chuckled. _"Thank you."_

"Seriously… when he began sitting at _our_ table—" Ron scoffed, "Bloody hell, that was a shock,"

"Oh, don't tell me you've taken Hermione's jokes seriously," Harry asked, "About him replacing you?"

"Well… no. Not _now."_

Harry laughed, "Merlin, Ron!"

"Well, you thought about telling _him _first before Hermione about—… wait, have you told her yet? With…" Ron pointed to his scarred hand.

"Oh. No, not yet."

_"Harry—" _

"I will! I promise, I will, it's just…" Harry sighed. "It's hard to find timing. There's a lot…" the image of Cedric laughing in the wind flashed in his mind, "There's a lot going on right now."

"Right. And…?" Ron prompted.

"It's _complicated."_

"What _isn't_ complicated about you?"

"Ha!" Harry shook his head. "In a different way."

Ron's right brow raised.

"I'll… I want to tell the both of you but… only when I figure it out," Harry stood up, "I don't want to say anything out of turn, but I _promise_, I'll tell Hermione. I'll do it today. Right now, even."

"Alright, great." Ron stood up as well, patting Harry's arm before he looked further down with a little more concern, "Hey, you know that you have a little… _something_ on your arm, right?"

Without waiting, he peeled off the papers and crumpled them inside his hands. Harry could only sigh and mutter, "Yeah… I-I have a lot of things to figure out."

* * *

Harry, Ron and Hermione spent the whole of Sunday in the common room, buried in their books while the tables around them filled up, then emptied: it was another clear, fine day and most of their fellow Gryffindors spent it out in the grounds, enjoying what might well be some of the last sunshine of the year.

By the evening, Harry felt as though somebody had been beating his brain against the inside of his skull.

"You know, we probably should try and get more homework done during the week," he muttered to Ron, as they finally laid aside Professor McGonagall's long essay on the _Inanimatus Conjurus_ spell and turned miserably to Professor Sinistra's equally long and difficult essay about Jupiter's moons.

"Never thought I'd hear you say _that,"_ Ron yawned. "How's Hermione doing?"

"Oh she's—" Harry glanced over at her; she was sitting with Crookshanks on her lap and chatting merrily to Ginny as a pair of knitting needles flashed in midair in front of her, now knitting a pair of shapeless elf socks— "Yeah, she's practically done, I think."

"That'll be us soon, Harry, just… need to get through this dumb essay about Jupiter's stupid moons _and—! _Troll fungus! I made a mistake," Ron began to scratch out whole sentences on his parchment, mercilessly.

They worked on while the sky outside became steadily darker; candles and lanterns lit as slowly, the crowd in the common room began to thin again. At half-past eleven, Hermione wandered over to them, yawning.

"Nearly done?"

"No," said Ron shortly.

"Jupiter's biggest moon is Ganymede, not Callisto," she said, pointing over Ron's shoulder at a line in his Astronomy essay, "and it's Io that's got the volcanos."

"Oh come on, Hermione, even you can't—" Ron flipped through his copy of _The Conjunction of the Stars: Edition V, _and blinked twice— "Oh no, you're completely right."

He began to scratch out and scrawl the correct labels and names into his essay.

"Thanks Hermione," he sighed. "Come on, we've got to get this finished some time before dawn," he said briskly to Harry, rolling Professor Sinistra's essay parchment so that he had room to write.

Hermione looked at Ron with an odd expression on her face.

"Oh, give them here," she said abruptly.

"What?" said Ron.

"Give them to me, I'll look through them and correct them," she said.

"Are you serious?"

"Yes! Just sit and rest a bit."

"Hermione. You're a lifesaver!" said Ron, "what can I—?"

"What you can say is, _'We promise we'll never leave our homework this late again,'"_ she said, holding out both hands for their essays, but she looked slightly amused all the same.

"Thanks a million, Hermione," said Harry weakly, passing over his essay and sinking back into his armchair, rubbing his eyes. It was now past midnight and the common room was deserted but for the three of them and Crookshanks.

The only sound was that of Hermione's quill scratching out sentences here and there on their essays and the ruffle of pages as she checked various facts in the reference books strewn across the table. It was such a comfortable sound too, and though Harry tried his best to fight it, his eyelids grew heavier and he could feel the weight of his arms sink securely into the chair…

Harry blinked. He had just seen something in the fire that could not have been there. It had flashed into sight and vanished at once.

No... it could not have been...

"Okay, write that down," Hermione said to Ron, pushing his essay and a sheet covered in her own writing back to Ron, "and then copy out this conclusion that I've written for you."

"Hermione, you are honestly the most wonderful person I've ever met," said Ron weakly, "and if I'm ever rude to you again—"

"—I'll know you're back to normal," said Hermione. She couldn't help but smile when Ron made an incredulous noise of discontent. "Harry, yours is okay except for this bit at the end, I think you must have misheard Professor Sinistra, Europa's covered in ice, not mice—Harry?"

Harry had slid off his chair onto his knees and was now crouching on the singed and threadbare hearthrug, gazing into the flames.

"Er—Harry?" said Ron uncertainly. "Why are you down there?"

"I just saw Sirius's head in the fire," said Harry.

_"What?"_

"Sirius's head?" Hermione repeated. "You mean like when he wanted to talk to you during the Triwizard Tournament? But he wouldn't do that now, it would be too—Sirius!"

Hermione stood and gasped, gazing at the fire; Ron dropped his quill. There in the middle of the dancing flames sat Sirius's head, long dark hair falling around his grinning face.

"I was starting to think you've already gone to bed," he said. "I've been checking every hour."

"You've been popping into the fire every hour?" Harry said, half laughing.

"Just for a few seconds to check if the coast was clear yet."

"But what if you'd been _seen?"_ said Hermione anxiously.

"Well, I think a girl—first year by the look of her—might've got a glimpse of me earlier, but don't worry," Sirius said hastily, as Hermione clapped a hand to her mouth. "I was gone the moment she looked back at me and I'll bet she just thought I was an oddly shaped log or something."

"But Sirius, this is taking an awful risk—" Hermione began.

"This was the only way I could come up with of answering Harry's letter without resorting to a code — and codes are breakable. Anyway, we'd better be quick, just in case we're disturbed — your scar."

Harry nodded avidly, bending so close toward the fire, Ron had to pull him away from it. "Yes, erm! It was hurting, like, _really _hurting when this Umbridge woman touched me…"

"Yes, I know it can't be fun when it hurts, but we don't think it's anything to really worry about. It kept aching all last year, didn't it?"

"Yeah. Dumbledore said it happened whenever Voldemort was feeling a powerful emotion," said Harry, ignoring, as usual, Ron and Hermione's winces. "So maybe he was just, _I dunno, _really angry or something the night I had that detention."

"Well, now he's back it's bound to hurt more often," said Sirius.

"You don't think it had anything to do with Umbridge touching me when I was in detention with her?" Harry asked.

"I doubt it," said Sirius. "I know her by reputation and I'm sure she's no Death Eater—"

"She's foul enough to be one," Harry retorted, and Ron and Hermione nodded vigorously in agreement.

"Unfortunately, the world isn't split into good people and Death Eaters," said Sirius with a wry smile, before his expression grew darker, "I know she's a nasty piece of work, though—she drafted a bit of anti-werewolf legislation two years ago that makes it almost impossible for Remus to get a job."

Harry remembered how much shabbier Lupin looked these days and his dislike of Umbridge deepened even further.

"What's she got against werewolves?" said Hermione angrily.

"Scared of them, I expect," said Sirius, smiling at her indignation. "Apparently she loathes part-humans; she campaigned to have merpeople rounded up and tagged last year too. Imagine wasting your time and energy persecuting merpeople when there are little toerags like Kreacher on the loose—"

Ron laughed but Hermione looked upset.

"Sirius!" she said reproachfully. "Honestly, if you made a bit of an effort with Kreacher I'm sure he'd respond, after all, you are the only member of his family he's got left, and Professor Dumbledore said—"

"I know, Hermione, I know. It's just been a while since I've had someone to complain to..."

"Well, that's unfortunate but—!"

"Quickly, tell me, what are Umbridge's lessons like?" Sirius asked. "Is she training you all to kill half-breeds?"

"She's not letting us use magic at all!"

"All we do is read the stupid textbook," said Ron.

"Ah, well, that figures," said Sirius. "Our information from inside the Ministry is that Fudge doesn't want you trained in combat."

"Trained in combat?" repeated Harry incredulously. "What does he think we're doing here, forming some sort of _wizard army?"_

Sirius stayed silent.

"Oh, _piss off…"_

"He thinks it's what Dumbledore's been doing for a while—forming his own private army—with which he will be able to take on the Ministry of Magic."

There was a pause at this, then Ron said, "That's the _stupidest_ thing I've ever heard, including all the stuff that Luna Lovegood comes out with."

"So we're being prevented from learning Defense Against the Dark Arts because Fudge is scared, we'll use spells against the Ministry?" said Hermione, looking furious.

"Yup. The Minister's getting more paranoid about Dumbledore by the day. It's only a matter of time before he has Dumbledore arrested on some trumped-up charge."

_"Seriously?"_

"This is what Remus told me last. I would tell you more, but this was quite a bit ago, I'm afraid." said Sirius, "I haven't seen him or anyone from the Order all weekend, they're all busy. It's just been Kreacher and me here..." There was a definite note of bitterness in Sirius's voice.

"So you haven't had any news about Hagrid, either?"

"Ah..." said Sirius, "well, he was supposed to be back by now, no one's sure what's happened to him." Then, seeing their stricken faces, he added quickly, "But Dumbledore's not worried, so don't you three get yourselves in a state; I'm sure Hagrid's fine. Madame Maxime was with him, we've been in touch with her and she says they got separated on the journey home—but there's nothing to suggest he's hurt or—well, nothing to suggest he's not perfectly okay."

Unconvinced, Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged worried looks.

"Listen, don't go asking too many questions about Hagrid," said Sirius hastily, "it'll just draw even more attention to the fact that he's not back, and I know Dumbledore doesn't want that. Hagrid's tough, he'll be okay." And when they did not appear cheered by this, Sirius added, "When's your next Hogsmeade weekend anyway? I was thinking, we got away with the dog disguise at the station, didn't we? I thought I could—"

"NO!" said Harry and Hermione together, very loudly.

"Sirius, didn't you see the Daily Prophet?" said Hermione anxiously.

"Oh _that,"_ said Sirius, grinning, "they're always guessing where I am, don't you worry! They haven't really got a clue—"

"Yeah, but we think this time they have," said Harry. "Something Malfoy said on the train made us think he knew it was you, and his father was on the platform, Sirius— you know, Lucius Malfoy—so don't come up here, whatever you do, if Malfoy recognizes you again—"

"Right. Right," Sirius tried to keep his voice as smooth and pleasant, but there was an invisible sigh as he breathed out. "It was just an idea! Thought that you might like to get together like last year—"

"Do you _want _to get chucked back in Azkaban?!" Harry cried.

"No, Harry, I do not want to go back to Azkaban. But I do not want to stuck in some _new_ prison masquerading as my old home either."

"It's too big of a risk. I know that you—"

"No! You don't, this time," he interrupted with a shaking voice, but then it evened out again. Low. "You _really _don't."

_"Sirius—"_

"Look, I'd better get going, I can hear Kreacher coming down the stairs," said Sirius, but Harry was sure he was lying. "I'll write to tell you a time I can make it back into the fire, then, shall I? If you can stand to _risk_ it?"

There was a pause in which Sirius looked out of the fire at Harry, a crease between his sunken eyes. Then... a tiny _pop!_ and the place where Sirius's head had been was flickering flame once more.

Harry sighed, _"Shit." _


	34. Extra: Moonlight and Dead Dream

Cedric pulled his jacket tighter around him, braced against the wind and burrowing his hands into his pockets as the cold sectioned off the parts of his face and neck left exposed. He felt slightly bad for leaving Hermione in the stadium but at the same time knew, that he would not be able to compose himself if he had stayed and waited Harry and Ron out.

_Is it be better to conceal it? _he thought. He pushed up the dirt path, head full of scrambled mess; _how much exactly would I be allowed to… _

To what?

_To think about him..._

And,

_Talk to him._

And,

... _touch him. _

The last one in particular stung. _How much am I __**allowed**__ to touch him? _It was wrapped in all the complications, all the questions he could not completely answer. Admittedly, it wasn't like they had been particularly _guarded_ around each other — though he had only fully realized it in the Owlery today, Cedric knew that his hands have been wandering Harry's way for much longer...

Even at the thought of it, a image briefly graced his mind, of the moment in the portrait passageway: Harry's face in the dim torchlight, his glasses having slipped to the end of his nose because of the sweat that had parts of his fringe and hair stuck on his face and neck. His eyes were rimmed red, tearing up until Cedric had kissed his hand and then suddenly all of him _blushed;_ those green eyes wide and lips parted in quiet surprise, his voice wracked tender and breathless, the trembling both having stopped there and in his hand... all because of something _Cedric _had done. The stoic face, so marvellously handsome had broken, soft, all because of _me and_ _he was all mine and—_

**_Stop._**

Cedric suddenly stood very straight; pausing in the middle of the path as he lurched forward and then squatted on the spot, shaking his head.

_Stop it. _

It was dangerous and unwarranted, thoughts like these—Cedric knew it, and he clenched his fist—he did not want to trick himself into believe something so blatantly untrue.

"Oh hello, Cedric Diggory... What are you doing down there?" somebody said above him. Cedric whipped his head upward, coming face to face with the face of a girl with dirt-blonde hair, a pair of shrunken plum-like things dangling from her ears and a clunky net-bag full of apples as she bent forward to look at him.

"Hello... Luna, I was just—!" Cedric stood up abruptly and looked down at her, less embarrassed than he was, _startled—_ "Why are you barefoot?"

"Oh! Thank you for asking... most people don't think to ask..." Luna stared down at herself and at a second glance Cedric noticed that except for the dirigible plum earrings—he had never seen one _outside_ of his mothers garden—and even with her bottle-cap necklace: Luna looked quite normal... that is, of course, until you realized that her bare feet was caked with the forest floor, leaves and mud stuck at the bottom of her heel.

"Unfortunately, all my shoes have mysteriously disappeared—" she explained. She motioned Cedric nearer and whispered— "I suspect that the _Nargles_ are behind it…"

Cedric did his best to make sure that no surprise or confusion came across his face.  
"Nargles... I see... are you cold?"

Luna shrugged. "A bit."

"Would you like _my_ shoes?" Cedric brought a foot with a well-strapped boot up, "My socks are wool and a bit thick, so I think you'll be able to fit into them…"

"Oh, it's alright. I'm not going very far," Luna stamped on the ground a couple of times, "I'm sure my feet will be fine."

"Where are you going?"

"To go and see the Thestrals…" a thought seemed to strike her, "Would _you_ like to come?"

Fleetingly, Cedric recalled what he saw in the Owlery window today — that winged, dark body that flew up into the sky and disappeared right back into the treetops of the forest below. He looked at Luna who stared back at him, eager.

"Sure," Cedric said, "let's go."

* * *

The day grew cold as he followed Luna through the woods. Cedric made sure to stop every now and then to cast a cleaning spell on her feet, though Luna barely noticed as they became muddy traipsing through the forest floor again. She chatted quite happily to Cedric, pointing out her favourite trees and a babbling brook that she had once slipped in when she wandered through, during her second-year. However, when they had reached a clearing, ringed by trees that bent over—their wide branches giving some semblance of coverage over the plain, dirt floor—Luna's steps became more careful and she pushed a finger against her lips. Dutifully, Cedric crouched with her and they crept to the very edge of the clearing, under the shadow of the trees.

He had seen them twice now, but still Cedric could not help feeling a slight unease at the sight of the Thestrals; there were perhaps five or seven of them in the clearing, frolicking and stretching their great, leathery wings—the cries they made sounded something akin to bird call, though everything from the way they walked and moved was more alike horses.

"What _are_ they?" asked Cedric.

"I told you before, they're called Thestrals,"

"Yes, I understand that but..." Cedric tilted his head, "are they _nice?"_

"They're quite gentle creatures." Luna helped Cedric stand silently, as some Thestrals trotted by, not noticing their presence. "People tend to avoid them because they're a _bit…"_

A small cry.

"… different." Cedric finished, watching as further in the back of the clearing, a little baby stood up. In its small form, it looked particularly bony, a cross between a bird and a bat; its thin legs shook as it began to take its first steps away from where it lay.

Cedric began to murmur to himself, "Well, why can't the others see them? And why can Harry only see them _sometimes?"_

Luna who had watched the Thestral foal intently, shook her head.  
"I don't know about Harry, but I know that Thestrals can only be seen by people who've witnessed death."

"Really? Right, right. Oh," Cedric realized. "Oh… I'm so _sorry—"_

"It's alright," Luna looked at him, not unkindly. "You can ask if you'd like."

"... only if you want to tell me,"

"I would. It was my mum," Luna said quietly, her face softened. "She was quite an extraordinary wizard but... she did like to experiment, and one day... one of her spells went badly. I was nine."

"... I'm sorry,"

"Yes, it was rather horrible. I do feel very sad about it sometimes, but I've got Dad." Luna smiled slightly and turned to him, as if reminded by something. "We both believe you, by the way! That He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back and you fought him and that the Ministry and the Prophet are conspiring against you, Harry and Dumbledore—"

"It was... it was Harry who fought him," Cedric interrupted, and he shook his head. "I mean, _thank you,_ but… it was Harry, who fought Vol-... He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Another cry. The Thestral foal had fallen over but an adult Thestral had nudged it up again. Cedric felt quite awkward in the silence that followed but Luna only nodded to herself and leaned back against a tree trunk, absent-minded.

"You know... it's strange, people say quite mean things about Thestrals," she said, unexpectedly.

"Yeah?"

"Yes. They say that they're harbingers of bad omen and misfortune... and gatekeepers of the veil."

"The veil?"

"It's what people call the line between life and death," Luna said, then in a matter-of-fact voice, "Dad says it lives in the Ministry."

"Ah." Cedric thought quietly to himself for a moment. "Is it true?"

"Well I think it does live in the Ministry but Thestrals being 'creatures of misfortune'... I don't think _that's _true, it's just what people say. And it's not all things like that... there are some rather lovely things said about them too,"

"Like what?"

"Apparently, a part of their myth is tied to the moon," Luna stretched her arm out, pale finger pointing to a tree-less patch of sky where the faintest sliver of a crescent moon could be seen, faded but peeking in the daylight. "Lots of wizards say that they came from there, or that they have a special affinity to moonlight—like how the sun illuminates everything it touches and how darkness shrouds it—the moon pulls and pushes the tide; all those things that are generally unnoticed and unseen. The Thestrals are testament to that, I suppose… they represent _her_ somehow…"

Cedric stared at her, intrigued, "The moon's a she?"

"Mum liked to think so," Luna clutched at her bottle-cap necklace, finger running over one in particular that had a semi-circle indented onto it, "She said that's where _my _name came from, though, it could be different for others."

Cedric slowly nodded, waiting as Luna seemed to become lost in thought, her silvery eyes glazing until her hand fell to her side.

"You know, even though I can only see them because she died, I like to think that maybe... maybe being able to see them can be considered something of a 'last gift' she gave me."

"Horses from the moon?" he asked. Luna nodded solemnly.

"Horses from the moon."

Cedric laughed at that, but it was not out of cruelty. He was charmed by her, this girl, it suddenly made sense to him that Hidiyah liked to look after her so much. Beside him, Luna smiled too, pleased that she could make someone else sound so delightful in the stillness of the forest.

And then it suddenly struck him. The moon.

_Moonlight._

"Luna," Cedric said, he turned to her, gripped in realization, "do you remember how Harry could only see the Thestrals near the carriages? And the entrance of the castle?"

"Yes, I—"

"I think he could only see them _because_ of the _moonlight. _He can only see them when they entered _it,"_

"Cedric—"

He turned to her, fervent, "In the clearing with the carriages... and on the bridge! It was a cloudy night, but the moon was full and bright in the sky when he saw them, each time!"

"Cedric Diggory, I'm incredibly happy for you, but I think... you may be just a little too loud for our friends..." she said quietly, staring very pointedly past him.

Slowly, Cedric turned around and saw the dark form of a Thestral staring at them, less than ten feet away. It's coat shined in the cold light, the bones of its body caught between shadow and the actual darkness of its coat, great wings folded behind its back though looking like it would be ready to loosen out, at a moment's sign of danger.

"Luna,"

"Yes...?"

"I'm going to ask you again, are they _nice?"_

"As nice as any other being, I suppose."

"... Are you afraid of them?" he asked, quietly.

"I don't know…" Luna was very still. "Until now, I've only been watching from afar. They're rather shy creatures... in fact, I've never seen someone actually pet them until you..."

"Right."

With great hesitance and caution, Cedric crept and raised his arm forward: open-handed, his fingers trembling from something a little more than just the chill. As he breached the shadow of the trees, the Thestral snorted and stomped, backing away and Cedric crouched a little more... trying to make his body as small as possible, trying to make himself as _less of a threat_, as possible. Behind the Thestral, he could see the others perk up, their reptilian heads swung his way and their attention weighing upon him like a boulder on top and Cedric force himself to halt—just a few steps into their space. Behind him, Luna kept quiet and watched, holding her breath as Cedric simply stood there, his arm still outstretched... waiting.

He tried to catch the gaze of the Thestral in front of him who, just as hesitant, just as careful, edged slowly forward; sniffing and snorting, wary in its movements even if you couldn't read its glassy, pale eyes.

"Hello," Cedric said, gently. The Thestral did not recoil. It's head leaned left than right, judging him curiously.

Only when the it's snout firmly pressed against the palm of Cedrics hand—not as to push him but more to show him that it was there—only then, did Cedric exhale in relief, as the creature too relaxed and eased into his warmth. Slowly he let his fingers recline and trace, gliding through what felt like a thin, glossy coat. And up came his second hand, which combed underneath his jaw and down the length of its neck.

He jumped slightly when he heard two things _thump! _onto the ground next to him—a red apple, and a small piece of meat—and looked back to see Luna rummaging through her bag and throwing out more apples that landed softly in a growing pile. Seemingly unable to ignore it, the Thestral nudged at Cedric's hand one last time, not minding as he let it trail down the hide of its body as it turned and walked toward the food. It flicked its head back, calling to the others, and it picked two or three apples in its beak; bringing them back to the newborn, which still stood shakily, further into the clearing.

As the other Thestrals snorted, and walked slowly toward the pile, Cedric moved back into the shadows where Luna clapped lightly at his return.

"I knew it would be good to bring you," she smiled, airily.

"It seems so," Cedric breathed, his heart had just only begun to pull back from the racing speeds it ran seconds ago,

"But I wonder why are they so nice to you?" Luna said aloud. She giggled slightly when one of the Thestrals threw the apple up and caught it, crunching it between its teeth. "Maybe it's because you're so good-looking?"

Cedric grimaced, a little uncomfortable as he clutched his hand, hesitant.  
"Can I tell you something?" he asked, turning to her.

"Sure."

"Erm, I told you that... that it was just _Harry_ who fought him: He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Luna tore her eyes way from the Thestrals, who slowly shepherded each of her apples away. "You did."

"This is just a theory, but I think... I think the reason _I_ can see the Thestrals, and why they—like?—me... is because I _died_ back then, i-in the graveyard, erm... during the last trial."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I... I see."

For the first time, Cedric watched as Luna took a breath and gazed at him, her usual placid expression broken by a very sober shock in her eyes. "That must be _horrible._ Are you alright?"

In his own surprise, Cedric let out breath he barely remembered holding and laughed, shaky, _"Ha! _Yeah, it was _pretty... _erm, it wasn't good, err..." he coughed, slightly confused—

"You believe me?"

"Well... _you_ believed _me," _Luna said. "I don't think that either you or Harry are liars, Cedric Diggory, I told you."

_"Yes—!"_ Cedric laughed again, "Right. Yes, you did."

"Would you like to talk about it?" she asked.

"No, no... I-I thought that... well since you told me about your mother, erm, that I..."

Luna nodded, understanding. She did not ask questions or say anything more. And though she was perhaps thinking heavily on what Cedric had confessed, the silence between them was not bogged down with intrusive thought.

"Thank you for bringing me here," Cedric said, suddenly. He watched as the Thestrals ate their apples, nuzzling their foal to eat as well, making small and content noises and cries from the back of their throats. It made him regret the fear and suspicion he had held against them in the first place. "This was... good. Educational. I never took Care of Magical Creatures..."

"You're very welcome, thank you for coming with me," Luna replied. She looked at the sky, seemingly able to tell something, "Shall we get back?"

"Yes."

"Then, lets... what are you doing?" Luna watched as Cedric pulled off his boots, he balled his socks into his pocket and waved a hand, clearing Luna's feet of dirt, mud and fallen leaf once more.

"Just... well, at least, for the way back?" he asked, holding his boots out to her. They were well-worn though not visibly deteriorated, and Cedric had made sure they did not _smell_ at the very least. Slowly, Luna paused and took them, cradling them in her hands like they were very precious.

"Thank you, Cedric Diggory."

"Cedric."

Luna smiled.

"Thank you, Cedric."

* * *

That night Cedric dreamed of the graveyard again.

Sleep had become something of a daily dread for him, but as he woke up the 'second' time—as he had to do for many nights—Cedric looked down at himself and felt a sense of relief rush in his stomach.

He was already dead.

He wore his yellow and black uniform, ripped and torn by the hedge, and his hands were sewn with that pale light: the skin of his palms faded and grainy like an old photograph. Around him, he recounted the same blurry backdrop of a night-sky far away from Hogwarts, and watched as the figure of a younger Harry fought the same battle, bloodied and desperate—he saw his body, too, far away but knew immediately, that he could not wander over to it.

It was always like this.

All the ghosts stood around Harry and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, who screamed, furious at each other; their wands locked in that line of lightning, of energy and magic, and all of them: Harry, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the Death Eaters... Cedric shuddered involuntarily, the same fear gripping him though he knew that even back then, he was technically safe from all the living's machinations. He can only passively look onto the same scene again, like all the other ghosts and just wait for it to finish—sometimes the agonizing slowed motion of time would take him all the way to the morning.

But Cedric felt the dream-likeness shake away from him. And his eyes darted around furiously.

_What's wrong this time? _he wondered.

His nightmares were cruel like that.

There was always something wrong if Cedric wasn't immediately being buried alive, if there weren't hands dragging him into the earth, there'd always be something else _off, _when he dreamt of familiar places—_safe _places, or they used to be, anyway—and familiar scenes. Dreams were so rarely _clinical_ like this, so detached and non-combative; recounting or, story-telling. There _had_ to be _something_ there, watching, waiting... there was _always_ something especially when he was not being _chased _by...

Oh.

**_OH._**

Cedric looked around, his heart seized in terror. _Where was he?_  
He patted himself for his wand, forgetting that his body was translucent.

_WHERE IS PETER PETTIGREW?_

And as he turned, wrenching his neck around—not caring if he would twist it—until the rest of his body followed, the scene of the ghosts and Harry and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Death Eaters faded behind him and he became _realer _—

He felt himself land in his corporeal body, slaked in the cold and fresh dew of a _rotting_ _graveyard._

The darkness overtook any makeshift stars or horizon, and Cedric knew he was staring out into an infinite nothingness that lurked behind hulking tombstones and skeleton hands uprooted around and bearing down on him. He whirled around and cowered and saw that same dark-cloaked figure, stumbling down the path, holding onto a writhing and squirming bundle of cloth.

Instinctively, Cedric looked to his side — Harry was not there. He looked all around him, flinching as he suddenly became aware of the many bruises and cuts on his arms and legs, of the sweat dripping through his clothes, and the mud and grime caked in his hair...

Never had his heart dropped more in the realization, never had he felt like his own stomach had been punched or someone had truly or more _profoundly_ taken something away from him.

_Harry was always there. ALWAYS._

He promised… how… how could _he…?_

Cedric's breathing hitched faster and faster. Something like the whistle of a steaming kettle scritched and scratched at the back of thoughts and then grew louder, _piercing_ through him. He could've screamed if the dream would let him but he felt that scream trap inside his throat. Instead, it was panic that lurched forward, trying to rip a way out from inside him, he felt the **_bile_** rise and couldn't tell whether his sleeping body was truly reacting to the horror he felt, or whether he had found himself in a nightmare that he couldn't escape he was breathing too much, he was breathing too heavily too fast too—

_"KILL THE SPARE!" _howled the voice, that **_grating_** voice. That sound of metal against metal. Of corrugated iron and the sound of someone's spine _breaking. _

Cedric wanted to scream. HE WANTED TO _SCREAM._  
He wanted to look away, LOOK AWAY, away from the hand that reached out, that waved its wand in a circle before it spit out that green monster of a flame—a bolt, an arrow that always struck true, always and completely... oh god.

Cedric dug his hands into his hair, wondered if he could rip himself apart to avoid the coming —

_Oh god, oh Merlin. The pain, _

_—the __**pain.**_Cedric was crying.  
_Not again. Please please please please please. Not again AGAIN no! NO!_

_NOT ALONE. _

**Not alone. **

Cedric felt the screech of his thoughts fade.

Time had slowed, in that funny way, again.

He could see the hood fall from Peter Pettigrew's face as he threw his wand forward, though Cedric knew he would never be able tell what his face looked like exactly—his features were smudged as usual, like splotted ink against parchment.

He could see each vibration of that ivory-white hand, its finger pointed and trembling at him. He could hear the burn of the Killing Curse as it rocketed over the grass, swathing like a net, melting grave stones and statues; the cry of Death and Nothing, an ancient and damned dark soul screeching in the few microseconds that remained until it would take him, and Cedric could see, not Harry, but a _Thestral _— standing beside him.

How long ago was it again... when he saw this creature?  
He could not remember.

But it stood there with him, head held tall, black wings out. Looking at the streak of green rushing toward them with nothing but _calmness_ in its bearing. It could've blended in the darkness of the graveyard if it wasn't for the inferno of green, slowly enveloping and devouring a path to them.

**Not alone. **

The thought had entered Cedric's mind like it had been _put_ there. And in the ephemeral moment of... not peace but not pain or chaos or awfulness either, in his nightmare: he felt his lips finally part.

"Not alone," he repeated, shakily. He reached out to the Thestral, who gently closed its eyes and leant toward him. Cedric held his breath.

And then, they were engulfed in the screams of green fire.

_/ thank you for the love thus far. work on the next chapter will be delayed until the end of the semester._


	35. Things You've Heard & Those No Answers

The next day, Harry awoke to a sluggish Monday morning shuffle; the kind where he and everyone else within the dorms fumbled through their drawers and dressed, before redressing again, realizing with slow startle that whatever robes had been put on were actually backwards and _incorrectly_ _done_ the first time: their long and boyish limbs struggling to button and clamber upright, eyelids drooped drowsy in the early morning darkness.  
With his bare feet pressed against the stone floor, Harry stared out of each of the windows that misted over, dappled in grey light; the air that flowed through open gaps no longer felt refreshing against his skin, it was only _cold, _and he shivered. Each individual breath felt like a cloud inside his chest and he watched as small puffs of vapour drifted from his lips, and then evaporated mid-air.

There was doubt that winter was coming. It would not be long until the snow and frost arrived, beckoned from the mountainous land lay around them, however, this first etching of the icy cold was always the worst. For all its magic, it didn't seem like Hogwarts had an enchanted weather vane that could warn its denizens of cold awakenings, and—despite the years he had spent here—neither of Harry nor his friends were particularly quick enough to anticipate the turning of the season. Sometimes they could tell when Neville got his runny noses too early, but this year, the fireplace within their dorm was pitch-black and empty of log and ember; the only proof of someone's foresight was in a single candelabra that burned, shedding dim light on top of Seamus's bedside table.

Harry was surprised to find that Seamus had already departed, gone were his books and bag, the only thing left were bunched up curtains tied with a Gryffindor house scarf, and a made bed that Dean had been staring down at.

"He's been heading off rather early," Harry said, offhandedly. With a dull nod, Dean took in a breath that came out a soft sigh.

"Seamus is... he's been eager to get away… even forgot his scarf on a day like _this…"_ he began, his fingers slowly reaching toward the cinch of Seamus's curtains. Harry, who was a little more awake now, did not say anything as he flipped his collar upward and began to fix in his tie— "…at about Ron?"

"Sorry?"

Dean pointed behind him, and repeated it again, _"What about Ron?"_

Swiftly, Harry turned to the direction Dean had motioned, his eyes coming to rest on the empty bed beside his own.

"Oh," he said.

Downstairs, he, and Hermione scoured the common room before spotting Ron amongst the breadth of sleepy study tables, a scowl deeply embedded onto his freckled face.

He did not seem surprised as the two made their way towards him and only brought out a single, unsealed scroll in his hand which—without a word, and when they were close enough—he thrust toward Harry and Hermione, who then leaned toward each other and began to read:

**From the desk of Percival Ignatius Weasley,  
Junior Assistant to the Minister of Magic**

_Dear Ron, _

_I have only just heard (from no less a person than the Minister of Magic himself, who has it from your new teacher, Professor Umbridge) that you have become a Hogwarts prefect. I was most pleasantly surprised when I heard this news and must firstly offer my congratulations. I must admit that I have always been afraid that you would take what we might call the "Fred and George" route, rather than following in my footsteps, so you can imagine my feelings on hearing you have stopped flouting authority and have decided to shoulder some real responsibility. _

_But I want to give you more than congratulations, Ron, I want to give you some advice, which is why I am sending this at night rather than by the usual morning post. Hopefully, you will be able to read this away from prying eyes and avoid awkward questions. _

_From something the Minister let slip when telling me you are now a prefect, I gather that you are still seeing a lot of Harry Potter. I must tell you, Ron, that nothing could put you in danger of losing your badge more than continued fraternization with that boy. Yes, I am sure you are surprised to hear this — no doubt you will say that Potter has always been Dumbledore's favourite — but I feel bound to tell you that Dumbledore may not be in charge at Hogwarts much longer and the people who count have a very different — and probably more accurate — view of Potters behaviour. I shall say no more here, but if you look at the Daily Prophet today you will get a good idea of the way the wind is blowing — and see if you can spot yours truly! _

_Seriously, Ron, you do not want to be tarred with the same brush as Potter, it could be very damaging to your future prospects, and I am talking here about life after school too. As you must be aware, given that our father escorted him to court, Potter had a disciplinary hearing this summer in front of the whole Wizengamot and he did not come out of it looking too good. He got off on a mere technicality if you ask me and many of the people, I've spoken to remain convinced of his guilt. _

_It may be that you are afraid to sever ties with Potter — I know that he can be unbalanced and, for all I know, violent — but if you have any worries about this, or have spotted anything else in Potter's behaviour that is troubling you, I urge you to speak to Dolores Umbridge, a really delightful woman, who I know will be only too happy to advise you. _

_This leads me to my other bit of advice. As I have hinted above, Dumbledore's regime at Hogwarts may soon be over. Your loyalty, Ron, should be not to him, but to the school and the Ministry. I am very sorry to hear that so far Professor Umbridge is encountering very little cooperation from staff as she strives to make those necessary changes within Hogwarts that the Ministry so ardently desires (although she should find this easier from now on — again, see the Prophet today!). I shall say only this — a student who shows himself willing to help Professor Umbridge now may be very well placed for Head Boyship in a couple of years! _

_I am sorry that I was unable to see more of you over the summer. It pains me to criticize our parents, but I am afraid I can no longer live under their roof while they remain mixed up with the dangerous crowd around Dumbledore (if you are writing to Mother at any point, you might tell her that a certain Sturgis Podmore, who is a great friend of Dumbledore's, has recently been sent to Azkaban for trespass at the Ministry. Perhaps that will open their eyes to the kind of petty criminals with whom they are currently rubbing shoulders). I count myself very lucky to have escaped the stigma of association with such people — the Minister really could not be more gracious to me — and I do hope, Ron, that you will not allow family ties to blind you to the misguided nature of our parents' beliefs and actions either. I sincerely hope that, in time, they will realize how mistaken they were, and I shall, of course, be ready to accept a full apology when that day comes._

_Please think over what I have said most carefully, particularly the bit about Harry Potter, and congratulations again on becoming prefect. _

_Your brother,_

_Percy_

Harry looked up at Ron.

"Well," he said, trying to sound as though he found the entire thing to be a joke, "if you want to, err—what was _it—"_ he checked Percy's letter— "Oh right, _'sever ties'_ with me…"

"Don't!"

"I was just going to say… that I _swear_ I won't get violent."

Ron did not laugh. Instead he held out his hand and said, tersely, "Give it back."

Harry and Hermione followed as he strode across the common room, clutching it tightly. When they were only five feet away from the fireplace—the pit in Harry's stomach deepening as he remembered the conversation with Sirius last night—they heard _a tremendous_ tearing noise.

"He is—" Ron said jerkily, tearing Percy's letter in half, "the world's"— and he tore it into quarters — "biggest"— and he tore it into eighths — _"git."_

And he threw the pieces into the open flames.

Seconds went by and the three of them watched those pieces quickly crumbled to ash, before Ron suddenly and very angrily cried, "I would _spit_ if I knew how to make a big enough loogie!"

At the sound of his outburst, a few Gryffindors woke with a start while many more simply stared at the three of them, mystified, as they passed out to the Grand Staircase. Despite the sinking feeling he had felt reading the letter earlier, _now,_ Harry almost felt like he could burst into laughter—Hermione certainly did.

"C'mon," Ron said, casually, as though nothing had happened at all. He slung his bag over his shoulder, "let's go get breakfast, I'm _starving."_

The three of them walked down to the Great Hall, where they expected to carefully comb Hermione's Daily Prophet in order to find the article Percy had mentioned in his letter. However, the departing delivery owl had barely cleared the top of the milk jug when Hermione let out a huge gasp and flattened the newspaper to reveal a large photograph of Dolores Umbridge, smiling widely and blinking slowly at them from beneath the headline:

"MINISTRY SEEKS EDUCATIONAL REFORM  
DOLORES UMBRIDGE APPOINTED FIRST-EVER "HIGH INQUISITOR"

_"High Inquisitor?"_ said Harry baffled, his half-eaten bit of toast slipping from his fingers. "What does that mean?"

Hermione read aloud: _"In a surprise move last night the Ministry of Magic passed new legislation giving itself an unprecedented level of control at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. _

_"'The Minister has been growing uneasy about goings-on at Hogwarts for some time,' said Junior Assistant to the Minister, Percy Weasley. 'He is now responding to concerns voiced by anxious parents, who feel the school may be moving in a direction they do not approve.' _

_"This is not the first time in recent weeks Fudge has used new laws to effect improvements at the Wizarding school. As recently as August 30th Educational Decree Twenty-two was passed, to ensure that, in the event of the current headmaster being unable to provide a candidate for a teaching post, the Ministry should select an appropriate person. _

_"'That's how Dolores Umbridge came to be appointed to the teaching staff at Hogwarts,' said Weasley last night. 'Dumbledore couldn't find anyone, so the Minister put in Umbridge and of course, she's been an immediate success—'"_

"She's been a WHAT?"

"Shh! There's more!"

_"'— an immediate success, totally revolutionizing the teaching of Defense Against the Dark Arts and providing the Minister with on-the-ground feedback about what's really happening at Hogwarts.'  
"It is this last function that the Ministry has now formalized with the passing of Educational Decree Twenty-three, which creates the new position of 'Hogwarts High Inquisitor.' _

_"'This is an exciting new phase in the Minister's plan to get to grips with what some are calling the "falling standards" at Hogwarts,' said Weasley. 'The Inquisitor will have powers to inspect her fellow educators and make sure that they are coming up to scratch. Professor Umbridge has been offered this position in addition to her own teaching post, and we are delighted to say that she has accepted.' _

_"The Ministry's new moves have received enthusiastic support from parents of students at Hogwarts.  
"'I feel much easier in my mind now that I know that Dumbledore is being subjected to fair and objective evaluation,' said Mr. Lucius Malfoy, 41, speaking from his Wiltshire mansion last night. 'Many of us with our children's best interests at heart have been concerned about some of_ _Dumbledore's eccentric decisions in the last few years and will be glad to know that the Ministry is keeping an eye on the situation.' _

_"Among those 'eccentric decisions' are undoubtedly the controversial staff appointments previously described in this newspaper, which have included the hiring of werewolf Remus Lupin, half giant Rubeus Hagrid, and delusional ex-Auror 'Mad-Eye' Moody.  
"Rumours abound, of course, that Albus Dumbledore, once Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, is no longer up to the task of managing the prestigious school of Hogwarts.  
"'I think the appointment of the Inquisitor is a first step toward ensuring that Hogwarts has a headmaster in whom we can all repose confidence,' said a Ministry insider last night. _

_"Wizengamot elders Griselda Marchbanks and Tiberius Ogden have resigned in protest at the introduction of the post of Inquisitor to Hogwarts.  
"'Hogwarts is a school, not an outpost of Cornelius Fudge's office,' said Madam Marchbanks. 'This is a further disgusting attempt to discredit Albus Dumbledore.' (For a full account of Madam Marchbanks' alleged links to subversive goblin groups, turn to page 17)."_

Hermione finished reading and glared at the paper with the same open-mouthed shock that Harry and Ron had been.

"Umbridge is here by Ministry law! First, Fudge passed this 'Educational Decree' and forced her on us, and now he's given her the power to _inspect_ the other teachers!"

"We know 'ermione, you just read it out loud…" Ron mumbled but Hermione was hardly listening. She was breathing fast and her eyes sparked with anger as her fingernails tore into the sides of the paper within her hands, as if to shred it fully, "I can't believe this! It's _outrageous..."_

Across from her, Harry could only dumbly nod. Many thoughts and emotions swirled around his head, but none seared more than the weight of his right hand, clenched upon the tabletop; the outline of the words that Umbridge had forced him to cut, still faintly visible onto his skin. He only blinked out of his daze when he heard laughter—small and quiet laughter—bubbling from beside him, a grin unfurled as Ron swallowed his breakfast down.

"What?" said Harry and Hermione together, staring at him.

"Oh, I can't _wait_ to see McGonagall inspected," said Ron. He took a bite of a happy bite out of his piece of toast. "Umbrish won't know wha' hit her!"

* * *

Morning classes passed quickly with both History and Potions as normal as they had been, the week before. Despite pocketing a graded-D _(Dreadful)_ moonstone essay in his bag from Snape, Harry did not feel worse for wear; he even managed to reign in his temper throughout the entirety of Defence Against the Dark Arts, though, the same could not be said for his own friends.

"What is it this time, Miss Granger?" Professor Umbridge remarked. The class had only been in session for three minutes and yet, Hermione already had her hand raised high above the top of her head. It seemed that Umbridge had worked out a strategy for this inevitability however, and rather than pretending that she had not noticed Hermione like last time, Umbridge instead had gotten to her feet and walked through the rows of desks until she and Hermione were face-to-face; where then she bent down and whispered so that the rest of the class could not hear.

"I've already read chapter two," said Hermione, pointing at the very page that Umbridge had instructed them to read, four minutes ago.

"Well then, proceed to chapter _three—"_

"I've read that too. I've read the whole book."

Professor Umbridge blinked but recovered her poise almost instantly. "Well, then, you should be able to tell me what Slinkhard says about counterjinxes in chapter fifteen?"

"He says that counterjinxes are improperly named," said Hermione promptly. "He says 'counterjinx' is just a name people give their jinxes when they want to make them sound more acceptable."

Professor Umbridge raised her eyebrows, and Harry knew she was impressed against her will.

"But I disagree," Hermione continued. Professor Umbridge's eyebrows rose a little higher and her gaze became distinctly colder.

_"You disagree?" _

"Yes, I do," said Hermione, who—unlike Umbridge—did not whisper and spoke in a clear, carrying voice that by now had attracted attention. "Mr. Slinkhard doesn't like jinxes, does he? But I think they can be extremely useful as defensive measures."

"Oh, you do, do you?" said Professor Umbridge, forgetting to whisper entirely and straightening up. "Well, I'm afraid it is Mr. Slinkhard's opinion, and not yours, that matters within this classroom, Miss Granger."

"But—" Hermione began.

"That's enough!" said Professor Umbridge, she walked briskly back to the front of the class and stood before them, all the jauntiness that she had shown at the beginning of their lesson gone. "Miss Granger, I am going to take five points from Gryffindor House."

There was an outbreak of muttering at this.

"What for?" said Ron angrily.  
He beat Harry to it, who felt inclined to a similar outburst, if it were not for Hermione's quick hand that seized his own.

"For disrupting my class with pointless interruptions," said Professor Umbridge smoothly. "I am here to teach you using a Ministry-approved method that does not include inviting students to give their opinions on matters about which they understand _very little._ Your previous teachers in this subject may have allowed you more license, but as none of them—with the possible exception of Professor Quirrell, who did at least appear to have restricted himself to age-appropriate subjects—would have passed a Ministry inspection…" she walked through aisles in between desks, casually rolling the wands that had not been put into bags like she had asked, off the tables and ignoring her students' scowls as she passed by.

Harry waited until she had truly and properly passed them, before turning to his friends and muttering under his breath, "Yeah, Quirrell was a _great_ teacher… if only there wasn't that minor drawback of having Voldemort sticking out of the back of his_ head!"_

"Shh!"

Ron and Hermione looked at him panickily, but Harry only gripped the cover of his book and ignored it, satisfied that their dissent—which had been so vehement the first time—had finally dulled down to only the softest sounds of protest.

When the room settled back into its previous uncomfortable silence, Hermione released the weight of her hand, and trailed her eyes to focus on the textbook in front of her. But Harry had an inkling that she would not read a word of it, as none of them—not him, nor her, nor Ron—turned a _single_ waxen page in the next drone of ten minutes. And then the next ten, and then the next.  
The ink may as well have been wet and dewy, swimming on the page in ineligible lines and an illiteracy that criss-crossed and swam around their heads, and _still_: the three of them would only blankly and outrightly stare, without absorbing a drop.

And they were not alone in this sentiment. Something rustled and shifted _tensely _in the dead air of the room.

After class, Harry and Ron groggily parted ways with Hermione and ambled toward the northern part of the castle, for another banal hour of Divination lessons.

True to the Prophet and its front-page article, however, the High Inquisitor climbed up the ladder minutes after them and within the velvet-draped room—its thick smell of incense withering under Umbridge's syrupy perfume—she strode around the North Tower with a clipboard, the clack of her heels sending ghosting pains that ran like goosebumps in Harry's right arm.

While the class had been instructed to complete their dream journals, it would have taken nothing less but a solid iron will to concentrate in this hour: Harry felt nearly sick to death of the heavy, humid air and it was only when Umbridge stopped by the front of the class, and began to speak in an insisting tone that he decided to spend a little effort and strain to hear.

"Now—" said Umbridge, she looked up at Professor Trelawney, who scowled at her, shoulders hunched; her arms crossed around her thin body as though wishing to protect herself as much as possible from the indignity of the inspection— "You've been in this post… how long, exactly?"

Harry poked at Ron's side, rousing him from the crook of his elbow while Trelawny spoke in a low and deeply resentful voice, "Nearly sixteen years."

"Quite a period," said Professor Umbridge, making a note on her clipboard. "So it was Professor Dumbledore who appointed you?"

_"Headmaster_ Dumbledore, that's right," said Professor Trelawney shortly.

Professor Umbridge made another note, "And you are a great-great-granddaughter of the celebrated Seer Cassandra Trelawney?"

"… Yes," said Professor Trelawney, holding her head a little higher. Another note on the clipboard.

"But I think—correct me if I am mistaken—that you are the _first_ in your family since Cassandra, to be possessed of second sight?"

"These things often skip—er—three generations," said Professor Trelawney, she began to clutch at one of the many beaded necklaces around her scrawny neck. Professor Umbridge's toadlike smile widened.

"Of course," she said sweetly, making yet another note. "Well, if you could just predict something for me, then?"

She looked up inquiringly, still smiling. Professor Trelawney had stiffened as though unable to believe her ears.

"I don't understand you,"

"I'd like you to make a prediction for me," said Professor Umbridge, very clearly. Harry and Ron were not the only people watching and listening sneakily from behind their books now; most of the class were staring transfixed at Professor Trelawney as she drew herself up to her full height, nearly twice the size of Umbridge's, her beads and bangles jingling and clinking together.

"The Inner Eye does not _See_ upon command!" she said in scandalized tones.

"I see," said Professor Umbridge almost sadly, making yet another note on her clipboard.

"I—but—but… wait!" said Professor Trelawney suddenly. Her voice shifted to her usual ethereal tone, though the mystical effect was somewhat ruined by the way she shook with anger. "I… I think I do see something… something that concerns you… Why, I sense something… something _dark_… some grave peril…!"

Professor Trelawney pointed a shaking finger at Professor Umbridge who continued to smile blandly at her, eyebrows raised.

"I am afraid… I am afraid that you are in grave _danger!"_ Professor Trelawney finished dramatically. There was a pause. Professor Umbridge's eyebrows were still raised.

"Right," she said softly, scribbling on her clipboard once more. "Well, if that's really the best you can do…"

She turned away, leaving Professor Trelawney rooted to the spot, her chest heaving. Harry caught Ron's eye and figured that he was thinking exactly the same: they both knew that Professor Trelawney was an old fraud, but on the other hand, they loathed Umbridge so much that they felt adamantly on Trelawney's side—that was, of course, until a few seconds later, when she seemed to snap out of her fearful daze and swooped down upon their table.

"Well?" she said, snapping her long fingers under Harry and Ron's nose, uncharacteristically brusque. "Let me see the start you've made on your dream diary, please!"

After she had read out Ron's dreams of dancing knitted-hats and called it _'critically uncultured'… _Harry and Ron both came to the silent agreement, that perhaps they did not feel so bad for her sake, after all.

* * *

Climbing down the tower's rickety ladder, they made their descent into the castles hallways and managed to catch sight of one Cedric Diggory by the courtyard, apparently unaffected as he blindly navigated through students rushing by, while his head craned downward at a leather-bound book in his left palm.

Without license, Harry felt himself be pulled along as Ron moved off to one of the many arched, stone windows. It was here— and to Harry's immediate regret—that Ron decided to yell out, _twice_, to catch the boy's attention.

"Cedric!" Ron waved his arms wildly, nearly knocking the glasses on Harry's face askew. "Oi! Hullo!"

When Cedric glanced up, Harry felt something inimitably _dense_ sink in. And when he began walking in their direction, a bright smile on his face, Harry felt the density unravelled further into a familiar tangle of nerves and uncertainty; the type that had bested his composure before.

"Hello!" Cedric said. His robes were loosely tied, almost unscrupulous, but the hems and ends of them swayed graceful by his feet, as he strode along the grass and neared the other side of the window, "Where are you off to?"

"Transfiguration," said Harry quickly, and then—as if to be more _helpful_—he added, "… with McGonagall."

"Ah! I think I'm familiar..." Cedric scratched the corner of his eye and promptly flashed the book he had just been reading: a copy of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration_, its star-embossed cover catching the daylight. Ron gaped.

"You take Transfiguration at N.E.W.T-level?"

"I've half the mind to drop it," smiled Cedric, dryly. "It took me the whole night trying to decipher this thing—"

"… are you alright?" Harry murmured. Almost like it had unwittingly slipped from him.

Cedric looked in mild surprise.

"Pardon?"

"Have you slept?" Harry asked, louder this time.

He looked concerned.

"Oh, I'm… I'm _fine! _Does it really show that much?" Cedric rubbed at his face and did not meet Harry's eyes.

"Busy?" asked Ron.

"It's only lately that it's been lot, what with Quidditch and N.E.W.T.S and everything… I'm even teaching Hidiyah a lot of her own subjects but—" and Cedric rummaged through his bag— "Actually, that reminds me…"

He brought out a rolled piece of parchment with a Galleon strung around it, sort-of like a pseudo-wax seal, "Could you give this to Hermione? I told her I'd teach her a spell, but I don't know if there's really _time_ for that... I've copied down some instructions to get her started, err…"

He paused momentarily, realizing that Harry and Ron were staring very openly at the coin. "The Galleon's for S.P.E.W.,"

Ron gaped at him, wider.

"For _SPEW?!"_

"Hang on! The badges are only a Sickle…" said Harry.

"Oh, I'm not joining—" Cedric vaguely gestured to the Quidditch Captain badge, re-pinned onto his robes, "I just thought I could at least support club activities—"

_"Club activities?!" _Ron sputtered again, nostrils flaring, "Are you absolutely _sure_ that you want to give her this much money?"

"Err, yeah..." Cedric looked at them, confused. "Didn't you?"

"N—… _Well—!" _

Neither Harry nor Ron wanted to admit that they hadn't paid for anything _but_ those first Sickle-badges last year; and _only_ to—though, unsuccessfully—get Hermione to quieten down.

Cedric stared at them, perplexed, "Have I done something wrong?"

"No! No. It..." Ron tilted his head, made face, but held the scroll and its Galleon carefully all the same, "I'm just... surprised! Right, Harry?"

"Yeah..."

"Look—! Never… never mind! We have class with her next so... she'll get it right away,"

"Fantastic, thanks. Then," Cedric looked to Harry, who made sure he was deliberately and seemingly fascinated at the wall behind him, "well—"

"Cedric!"

A large figure rushed up, with everything from his robes to his uncloaked arms stained with grass, dirt, and what seemed to be _paint_—it looked as if he had been rolling in sparse puddles of the stuff—and from his broad shoulders, swung a bag that had been stuffed to brim with heavy books and loose papers. Harry swore there was a stack of thick twigs poking out one of the larger pockets, but Cedric didn't seem surprised as he looked up at the person, expectant.

"Painting's done?"

As Evan Wright nodded and patted himself down sheepishly, loosening trapped autumn leaves to float toward the ground, Harry looked harder at the thick twigs sticking out of his bag and realized that they indeed looked like paintbrushes.

"Another successful day of learning!" Evan beamed, seemingly oblivious to their confused expressions as he nodded toward Harry and Ron, "Hello, Harry Potter… Harry Potter's friend,"

"Oh. I'm Ron Weasley,"

"Hello, Ron Weasley!"

"… just Ron's fine…"

Harry nodded as well, "Just 'Harry's fine, Evan,"

Before he could respond, Cedric put his hand out and muttered a few words, sending a rush of air to swirl through Evan's leaf-ridden clothes until they were clean. They admired his fresh uniform for a second before Cedric asked, "Where's Hidiyah?"

"Already waiting for us in the commons, I bet."

"Right, we should go then," Cedric said, nodding at Ron. And then keenly, to Harry, "I'll see you later?"

Harry bobbed his head toward the ground but knew he could not ignore him this time, "See you later,"

He glanced up and caught a glimpse of Cedric's smile, the crinkle at the edge of his eyes looking like they had sunken a little deeper into his skin. Harry then muttered, _"We shouldn't be late for class," _under his breath and strode off, pulling his friend along.

Ron managed to shout a quick _"Bye!", _waving back to Evan until they disappeared around the corner. And it was at this point that he let out a big breath, his saddle-bag swaying and hitting his legs as they frantically crossed the courtyard, "Did you see that! He was almost as tall as _Hagrid!"_

"Yeah, he's quarter-Giant, I think," said Harry, "hey, d'you reckon that Cedric looked a little strange? Just now?"

"Eh?"

"I mean, his uniform was all over the place, right?"

"Oh,"

"And his _face—"_

"Well, he did say that he'd been trying to study that book all night…" Ron shrugged, "Maybe he's just tired."

"Could be," Harry said, though he did not look convinced.

"C'mon," Ron patted his shoulder as they stepped back into the stone corridors, "we'd better not be late for McGonagall."

A few minutes later, they were seated in their Transfiguration class, having delivered Cedric's scroll and Galleon to Hermione; whose face shone brightly as she read the piece of parchment.

"But what's this Galleon for?" she asked, puzzled.

"Cedric said it's for S.P.E.W."

_"Really!"_

Again, and almost out of thin air, Hermione whipped out a tin money-box that rattled as she excitedly dropped the Galleon into it.

"Oh, how lovely!" she said, wistful, "I wish people were more like him…"

Ron laughed, "It'd be more bizarre if lots of people supported _your_ club activities—"

"Oh, would you _stop_ _it_, Ronald."

Ron blinked, straightening at the sudden harshness in Hermione's voice as she looked over to him in irritation.

"Stop what?" he said, cautiously.

"Don't treat the club like it's a waste of _space,"_

"I didn't say that!"

"You don't even try to pronounce S.P.E.W. properly!" Hermione rolled her eyes. "But, I suppose that's how you've always acted…"

Ron's ears twitched, "Well _you're_ the one who's been insisting to rescue the elves when they don't even _need _or_ like _you—"

"Well, good thing that it's not about that, it's about _having_ the choice_!"_ Hermione snapped unexpectedly. "It's about showing them that the option is there and _giving_ them those chances!"

She frowned, an intense gaze pouring over them, but especially Harry.

"Don't _you_ like having choices? If you could have it, wouldn't _you_ want a say in your life? In all those things that have or _will_ happen to you?"

Harry conceded, "I suppose…"

"Then, stop treating me like I'm doing something foolish!" Hermione said forcefully. A few people in class turned back to her, but Ron shot them quick, venomous looks, enough to turn them away. "I admit, I've been doing some silly things lately, but don't you _dare_ make me out like I'm some _fraud_ like Rita Skeeter, or Gilderoy Lockhart or, or—!"

"Some other egomaniac?" suggested Harry, quietly.

"Yes! Don't treat me like I'm some other egomaniac!" Hermione put out her palm. "It's my fault for making you two join in the first place, if you don't _actually_ want to be a part of the club, give your badges here then—"

"Oh, I didn't mean—! Look, Hermione, it's not that I'm _not _sympathetic to the elves—" began Ron.

"Then I think you should start _acting _like it," Hermione declared, "and stop treating them, S.P.E.W. and _me_ like we're lost causes!"

Ron shut his mouth, stunned; but he did not hand his badge over as Hermione glared at him, with her hand still out. A great tension lay in between them, with neither seeming to back down, and in the middle—sandwiched between his two friends—Harry timidly piped up, "I'm—I'll be keeping mine…" he looked over to Hermione, nervous, "if that's alright…"

Hermione shrugged and then shifted, continuing to read Cedric's notes while facing away. For the next few minutes, Ron and Harry sat in silence; they did not even have time to warn or tell Hermione about their Divination class, when Umbridge suddenly walked in: her sickly sweet perfume hitting the class full-force, though this time, mixed with viscous scent of incense as well.

When the clock hit two, Professor McGonagall marched into the room without giving the slightest indication that she knew Professor Umbridge was there.

"That will do," she said, and silence fell immediately. "Mr. Finnigan, kindly come here and hand back the homework… and Miss Brown, please take this box of mice—don't be silly, girl, they won't hurt you—and hand one to each student—"

_"Hem, hem,"_ said Professor Umbridge, employing the same silly little cough she had used to interrupt Dumbledore on the first night of term. Professor McGonagall ignored her. Seamus handed back Harry's essay, which he took without looking at him. Harry sighed in relief. He had managed an A.

"Right then, everyone, listen closely—Dean Thomas, if you do that to the mouse again, I shall put you in detention!—most of you have now _successfully_ vanished your snails and even those who were left with a certain amount of shell have the gist of the spell. Today we shall be—"

"Hem, hem,"

_"Yes?"_ said Professor McGonagall. She turned around with her eyebrows gathered so close together, they seemed to form one long, severe line.

"I was just wondering, Professor, whether you received my note telling you of the date and time of your inspec—"

"Obviously, I received it, or else I would have asked what you are doing in my classroom," said Professor McGonagall, turning her back firmly on Professor Umbridge. Many of the students exchanged looks of glee. "Now, as I was saying, today we shall be practicing the altogether more difficult vanishment of _mice_. Now, the Vanishing Spell—"

"Hem, hem."

"I wonder—!" said Professor McGonagall in cold fury, turning on Professor Umbridge— "How do you expect to gain _any_ idea of my usual teaching methods, if you continue to interrupt me? You see, I do not generally permit people to talk when _I_ am talking,"

Professor Umbridge looked as though she had just been slapped in the face. The thins of her bottom lip quivered but she did not speak and instead straightened the parchment on her clipboard, scribbling quite furiously onto it.

"As I was saying," Professor McGonagall turned back to board, "the Vanishing Spell becomes more difficult with the complexity of the animal to be vanished. The snail, as an invertebrate, does not present much of a challenge; the mouse, as a mammal, offers a much greater one. This is not, therefore, magic you can accomplish with your mind on your dinner. So—you know the incantation, let me see what you can do..."

As she turned to face the class: Harry, Ron and Hermione fought hard to keep the faint smiles off their faces. Their amusement, however, was short-lived once Care for Magical Creatures rolled around in the mid-afternoon: it felt like an inevitable development when they walked down the lawns toward the forest and found her and her clipboard waiting for them beside Professor Grubbly-Plank.

"You do not usually take this class, is that correct?" Harry heard her ask as they arrived at the trestle table where the group of captive Bowtruckle's were scrambling around for wood lice like so many living twigs.

"Quite correct," said Professor Grubbly-Plank, hands behind her back and bouncing on the balls of her feet. "I am a substitute teacher standing in for Professor Hagrid."

Harry exchanged uneasy looks with Ron and Hermione. Malfoy was whispering with Crabbe and Goyle; he would surely love this opportunity to tell tales on Hagrid to a member of the Ministry.

"Hmm," said Professor Umbridge, dropping her voice, though Harry could still hear her quite clearly, "I wonder… the headmaster seems strangely reluctant to give me any information on the matter, can _you_ tell me what is causing Professor Hagrid's very extended leave of absence?"

Harry watched as Malfoy looked up eagerly.

"'Fraid I can't," said Professor Grubbly-Plank breezily. "Don't know anything more about it than you do. Got an owl from Dumbledore: 'Would I like a couple of weeks teaching work?', accepted and that's as much as I know. Well... shall I get started then?"

"Yes, please do," said Professor Umbridge, scribbling upon her clipboard. Umbridge took a different tack in this class and wandered among the students, questioning them on magical creatures. Most people were able to answer well and Harry's spirits lifted somewhat; at least the class was not letting Hagrid down.

"Overall," said Professor Umbridge, returning to Professor Grubbly-Plank's side after a lengthy interrogation of Dean Thomas, "how do you, as a temporary member of staff—an objective outsider, I suppose you might say—how do you find Hogwarts? Do you feel you receive enough support from the school management?"

"Oh, yes, Dumbledore's excellent," said Professor Grubbly-Plank heartily. "No, I'm very happy with the way things are run, very happy indeed."

Looking politely incredulous, Umbridge made a tiny note on her clipboard and went on, "And what are you planning to cover with this class this year—assuming, of course, that Professor Hagrid does not return?"

"Oh, I'll take them through the creatures that most often come up in O.W.L.," mused Professor Grubbly-Plank. "Not much left to do—they've studied unicorns and nifflers, so I thought we'd cover porlocks and kneazles… make sure they can recognize crups and knarls; the basics, you know…"

"Well, _you_ seem to know what you're doing, at any rate," said Professor Umbridge, making a very obvious tick on her clipboard. Harry did not like the emphasis she put on _"you"_ and liked it even less when she put her next question to Goyle:

"Now, I hear there have been injuries in this class?"

Goyle gave a stupid grin, and Malfoy hastened to answer the question.

"That was me," he said. "I was slashed by a hippogriff."

_"A hippogriff?"_ said Professor Umbridge, now scribbling frantically.

"Only because he was too stupid to listen to what Hagrid told him to do!" said Harry angrily. Both Ron and Hermione groaned. Professor Umbridge turned her head slowly in Harry's direction.

"I think a few days' worth of detentions would do you some good, Mr. Potter," she said softly. "Well, thank you very much, Professor Grubbly-Plank, I think that's all I need here. You will be receiving the results of your inspection within ten days."

"Jolly good," said Professor Grubbly-Plank. Meanwhile Professor Umbridge set off back across the lawn to the castle, with Harry very much left seething in her wake.

* * *

"Now, Mr Potter, I know that you feel... _well..._ I suppose it can't be said be said in any other measure—" Harry twitched at the sound of Umbridge's voice, the clink of her teaspoon against porcelain teacup notably sharp after three hours of silence— "I understand that you may feel _antagonistic _towards me, but you should know that I truly and only have been trying to help this school become _the best it can be..._ I was once a student of Hogwarts, after all."

Harry gritted through the pain searing in his right hand and did not stop writing.

"Perhaps, my ideas of what is best may not equivocate to yours, but as I am the _adult_ of this situ—"

"You're right." Harry said, interjecting. "Unless you can also agree that Professor Lupin was one of the best teachers Hogwarts had, I don't think our ideas of what is _'best'_ match up."

"Ah, yes," Harry could hear the smile in Umbridge's voice and bit the inside of his mouth. "You were quite close to Remus Lupin, or so I've heard... A shame that he was such a _dangerous_ creature—"

"He was no more dangerous than Quirrell was,"

"Professor Quirrell?" Umbridge giggled, her girlish laugh a grating contrast to the many delicate cat portraits that hung about the room and meowled, "Now how could _he—_a normal and _decent _wizard—measure up against a vicious, little _half-breed?"_

"I couldn't tell you," said Harry, though she couldn't see it, he held a tense gaze as he bent over parchment riddled with identical lines of red ink, "But I suppose that you wouldn't know what it's like, spending a year trying to survive murder attempts from a man like him... I'd say that having **_Voldemort_** at the back of his head made Quirrell a lot more threatening in my mind."

Silence. Only the sound of Harry's quill scratched under the stifling weight that statement.  
When finally, he forced himself to look up, the pain in his hand felt unbearable and yet he forced himself to put on a guarded face.

Nothing could describe the vindication he felt, looking into the still-shocked eyes of the woman in front of him.

"He's the reason _why_, you know..." Harry continued, "Because of Voldemort, I hear that a lot of people don't last long in your position, _Professor."_

Umbridge's voice came out slow, barely above a whisper.

"Is that a threat?"

"No." Harry swallowed, his throat dry and his hand trembling, though you could see the hardness set in his jaw. "It's just something that _I've_ heard."

Umbridge pursed her lips.

"You've stopped your stride, Mr Potter. That won't do. You are to come to my room for detention until Saturday night."

* * *

It was nearly midnight when Harry left Umbridge's office, his hand now bleeding so severely that he had kept his robes bunched up around the wound just to keep the blood from dripping onto the stone floors. Contrary to his expectations of returning to an empty common room, Harry felt pleased to see his friends, who once more were doused in the light of the fireplace, dutifully waiting on the dusty common room couch—_albeit_—sitting further apart than they ever had before.

When he arrived, stumbling through the portrait-hole, however, the severity fixed in their faces softened and they almost immediately jumped to their feet when he revealed his blood-soaked hand.

"Here," Hermione said anxiously, she pushed him to sit onto an armchair and placed a small bowl of yellow liquid toward him. "Soak your hand in that. It's a solution of strained and pickled murtlap tentacles, it should help."

As he settled into the couch, Harry placed his bleeding, aching hand into the bowl and experienced wonderful relief. Crookshanks curled around his legs, purring loudly, and then carefully leapt into his lap and settled down.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, scratching behind Crookshanks's ears with his left hand.

"I still reckon you should complain about this," said Ron in a low voice.

"No," said Harry flatly.

"McGonagall would go _nuts_ if she knew—"

"Yeah, she probably would," Harry admitted. "But how long d'you reckon it'd take Umbridge to pass another Decree saying anyone who complains about the High Inquisitor gets sacked immediately?"

Ron opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out and after a moment he closed it again in a defeated sort of way.

"She's an _awful_ woman," said Hermione in a small voice. "Awful. We've got to do something about her."

"I suggest poison," said Ron grimly.

"No... I mean, something about what a dreadful teacher she is, and how we're not going to learn any defense from her at all," said Hermione.

"_That's _what you're—… well, what can we do about that?" said Ron, yawning. "'S too late, isn't it? She got the job, she's here to stay and Fudge'll make sure of that."

"Well," said Hermione tentatively. "You know, I was thinking the other day..."

She shot a slightly nervous look at Harry and then plunged on, "I was thinking that… _maybe_ the time's come where we should just… just do it_ ourselves."_

"Do what ourselves?" said Harry suspiciously, still floating his hand in the essence of murtlap tentacles.

"Well, erm… I mean, learn Defense Against the Dark Arts ourselves," said Hermione.

"Come off it," groaned Ron. "You want us to do _extra work?_ Harry and I are barely keeping our heads up on homework and it's only the second week!"

"But this is much more important than homework!" said Hermione. Harry and Ron snapped their heads and gawked at her.

"W-what?"

"I didn't think there was anything in the universe more important than homework," said Ron.

"Don't be silly, of course there is!" said Hermione. Sobering from the pain, Harry recognised that her face was suddenly alight, it was the kind of fervour that S.P.E.W. usually inspired in her.

"It's like Harry said in Umbridge's first lesson… about preparing ourselves for what's waiting out there. It's about making sure we really _can_ defend ourselves. If we don't learn anything for a whole year—"

"But we can't do much by ourselves!" said Ron in a defeated voice. "I mean, all right, we can go and look jinxes up in the library and try and practice them, I suppose—"

"No, I agree, we've gone past the stage where we can just _learn_ things out of books," said Hermione. "We need a teacher, a proper one, who can show us how to use the spells and correct us if we're going wrong."

"If you're talking about Lupin..." Harry began.

"No, no, I'm not talking about Lupin," said Hermione. "He's too busy with the Order anyway, the most we could see him is during Hogsmeade weekends and that's not nearly often enough."

"Who, then?" said Harry, frowning at her. Hermione heaved a very deep sigh.

"Isn't it obvious?" she said. "I'm talking about you, Harry."

A moment's silence. A light night breeze rattled the windowpanes behind Ron and the fire guttered.

"About me what?" said Harry.

"I'm talking about you teaching us Defense Against the Dark Arts."

Harry stared at her. Then he turned to Ron, with the conviction that he must have the same boggled expression on his own face, however to Harry's surprise: Ron did not look exasperated. Instead, it looked like a lightbulb had turned on inside his head.

"That's an idea," he whispered.

"What's an idea?" said Harry.

"You," said Ron. "Teaching us to do it."

"But..." Harry was grinning now, sure the pair of them were pulling his leg. "But I'm not a teacher, I can't—"

"Harry, you're the best in the year at Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione.

"Me? No I'm not, you've beaten me in every test —"

"Actually, I haven't," said Hermione coolly. "You beat me in our third year—the only year we both sat the test and had a teacher who actually knew the subject, but I'm not talking about test results, Harry. Look at what you've done!"

"How d'you mean?"

"You know what, I'm not sure I want someone this stupid teaching me," Ron said to Hermione, smirking slightly. He turned to Harry.

"Let's think," he said, pulling a face like Goyle concentrating. "Uh… first year—you saved the Stone from You-Know-Who."

"But that was luck," said Harry, "that wasn't skill—"

"Second year," Ron interrupted, "you killed the basilisk and destroyed Riddle."

"Yeah, but if Fawkes hadn't turned up I—"

"Third year," said Ron, louder still, "you fought off about a hundred dementors at once—"

"You know that was a fluke, if the Time-Turner hadn't—"

"Last year," Ron said, almost shouting now, "you fought off You-Know-Who _again—"_

"Listen to me!" said Harry, almost angrily, because Ron and Hermione were both smirking now. "Just listen to me, all right? It sounds great when you say it like that, but all that stuff was _luck_—I didn't know what I was doing half the time, I didn't plan any of it, I just did whatever I could think of, and I nearly always had help—" Ron and Hermione were still smirking and Harry felt his temper rise; he wasn't even sure why he was feeling so _bothered._

"Don't sit there, grinning like you know better than I do, I was there, wasn't I!" he said heatedly. "I know what went on, all right? And I didn't get through any of that because I was _brilliant_ at Defense Against the Dark Arts or anything, I got through it all because—because _help _came at the right time, or because I had guessed right—but mostly I was just blundering through it all and I didn't have a clue what I was doing — _STOP LAUGHING!"_

The bowl of murtlap essence fell to the floor and smashed. Harry became aware that he was on his feet, though he couldn't remember standing up, and Crookshanks streaked away under a sofa; Ron and Hermione's smiles vanished.

"You don't know what it's like! Neither of you have ever had to face him, or anything like him! You think it's just memorizing a bunch of spells and throwing them at him, like you're in class or something? No! The whole time you know there's nothing between you and dying except your own—… your own brain or guts or whatever! As if you can think straight when you know you're about a second from being murdered, or tortured, or watching your friends die! They've never taught us that in their classes, what it's like to deal with things like that, and you two sit there acting like I must be some clever little boy to be standing here, _alive_, and Cedric must've been _stupid_, like he messed up! Well guess what, it was LUCK THAT SAVED _HIM_ TOO!"

"It wasn't me! It was never going to be _me! _He's only here because someone, _something, _decided that it would be that way! Lockhart, that memory of Tom Riddle in that diary, Pettigrew or, or Crouch—! All of those people could've _easily _taken my life, and it could just as easily have been _me_ that night if only Voldemort hadn't needed my—!"

"We weren't saying anything like that, mate," said Ron, looking aghast. "We weren't having a go at Cedric, we didn't—you've got the wrong end of the—"

He looked helplessly at Hermione, whose face was stricken.

"Harry," she said timidly, "don't you see? This... this is exactly why we need you... We need to know what it's really, er, really _like..._ facing him... facing V-Voldemort."

It was the first time she had ever said Voldemort's name, and it was this, more than anything else, that _calmed_ Harry. Still breathing hard, he sank back into his chair, becoming aware as he did so that his hand was throbbing horribly again. He wished he had not smashed the bowl of murtlap essence.  
Harry could not think of anything to say. Already, he began to feel ashamed of his outburst and simply nodded, hardly aware of what he was agreeing to. It was only when he felt a warm hand on his head—a small one that hesitantly thread through his hair—did he arrive to his immediate senses.

"I don't know what happened that night, but Cedric… Cedric's still _alive_. And you," Hermione lowered her head, so that both of her wide, brown eyes looked softly in Harry's own, "both of you being alive, it… it isn't _proof_ that you're clever boys with tricks or anything like that at all, it just—! It proves that everyone else has a chance—that, that we might have _a chance! _Even if the grown-ups don't think we're old enough to know these things."

Harry bit the inside of his lip. "A chance at what?"

"Surviving! Getting through what might _pass—"_

"—and what if _just_ being alive, just _surviving _isn't enough?"

Silence. The crackle of fire as Harry's friends let his words thaw and embed into their minds.

"There's only so much that school and even _I_ can teach you, Hermione. I'm not… I can't…"

"I… don't know," Hermione said eventually, and she shook her head. "I can't imagine what you… I… I don't know…" Harry knew it was not a sentence that she said or liked to say often, and he could see that her eyes welled, though she kept her voice soothing and calm.

"I don't think _I_ can answer that, Harry: whether surviving is enough or how you can even begin to have that kind of conversation with other people, but I think that… for now… I think it's enough that you have _time_ to figure out those kinds of things." she paused. "All I'm asking is that you teach us how to make that time too so if you could… if you could think about it… _please."_

Silence.

"I'll think about it," Harry whispered, eventually. Ron and Hermione let go of a breath.

"Thank you."

"Thanks, Harry,"

Slowly, Hermione stood back up and pressed a single kiss at the top of Harry's head before saying her goodnights, her sorrys, and then walking towards the staircase. For a while, Ron stared after her.

They stood there for a moment, still. Watching as the fire slowly died between them, to a low rumble of flame licking over logs and scrunched up pieces of discarded parchment.

"Are you coming up?" Ron asked, eventually.

"Yeah," sighed Harry. He indicated to the smashed bowl on the floor. "Just... in a minute. I'll clear this up, first,"

"It might not be enough," he said, abruptly.

"What?"

Ron looked at Harry with a solemn face—not unlike the one he had a few days ago, after their first Quidditch practice—but this time it felt more like _tender_ kind of sober.

"Being alive… surviving and all that, it might not be enough, but," he placed his hand on Harry's shoulder. "we'll be here to help you with all the living you'll have to do, afterwards."

"Yeah?"

"Always."

Harry felt his throat choke, "Right,"

Ron nodded and then, seemingly decided to fidget a little, still standing in place. Suddenly, Harry felt an arm around wrap around him: a voice that whispered a hasty _"Goodnight mate," _before he felt a little peck on his temple.

And then it wasn't long until, Ron too, disappeared upstairs, leaving Harry alone to the fireplace.

He felt tired. _Incredibly_ tired. What little effort he could spend, he spent just hoping that by some small miracle Sirius's head would pop out of the fire, awkward as their last conversation had been. Then, briefly, those hopeful thoughts drifted to what Hermione had said.

She was right. _Of course,_ she was right.

Cedric _is_ alive. Harry himself is _still_ alive.  
It must _count_ for something_._

"Reparo," he muttered, pointing his wand at the broken pieces of china. They flew back together, good as new, but there was no returning the murtlap essence to the bowl.

_If it's enough to scare Voldemort, and enough to scare the Ministry of Magic... it **has** to mean something, right? _Harry thought to himself. _I'm alive. I'm… **here** but for what? For this? _

To teach? To arm people against the outside? Against the unknowns?

Harry didn't know—he just felt _so tired. _

_I want to sleep, _he thought. It was tempting to sink back into the couch and to rest there for the night, but instead, he got to his feet; knowing that neither his house nor the twins would ever let him live it down—

_I want my hand to stop hurting. _It was so regretful that anger had taken him, that it had taken the tonic that Hermione had so carefully prepared just for his sake, that it had earned him a few extra nights of extended agony and yet... he just felt so _victorious_ remembering Umbridge's still and shocked face from behind her desk — Ron and Hermione will be furious when they find out. And Cedric... well...

Harry stopped.

_Cedric._

_I want to see Cedric. _

_…_

_I want to see **Cedric**. I want to—_

Harry wondered aloud, a tired exhalation of his breath, "Ha—... what would _he_ think of all this?"

Without answers, he trudged upstairs and fell into his bed with such reckless abandon, that his glasses nearly broke from the sheer impact; he had forgotten to take them off, first. What followed was a restless night of sleep, punctuated once more by dreams of long, dark, corridors and locked doorways. The next day, he awoke only to the cold and to his scar prickling again, but still: no answers.


	36. Boiling Point

Like sand seeping through one's fingers, three weeks passed in a swift and lively fashion; you would almost think that the days bore rosy-cheeked grins, or that—between the strokes of the clock—time beat to the curled rhythm of Crookshank's fleecy tail.  
It was a sprightly period: when looked back on, it would only blur in the vaguest shapes of memories, and colours blending in with voices.  
To start with, in the aftermath of that restless night, neither Hermione _nor_ Ron made any mention of Harry giving Defense Against the Dark Arts lessons again.  
In fact, ever since their Transfiguration class, the two hardly talked at all: coming to a truce brokered through silence, which _itself, _only broke when they mustered enough of something to say or ask Harry (who had been wedged as their intermediary).

Day in, day out, the three gathered in the common room and made their descent for breakfast and supper as they had always done. However, this tradition wrestled with a repressive and throttled _quiet: _almost as if, there still lingered a slow and crawling sense of embarrassment from the night before.

"You know… it's surprising that there aren't _more _people treating Cedric with the same disdain they do with you," Hermione frowned. At the forefront of the Great Hall, they sat, soaking in the sunlight: the mug by her elbow no longer billowed with steam as her smeary fingertips traced the headlines of The Prophet, and flipped nippily through, "I mean, look at this! You've _both_ been jabbed an equal amount of times so far…"

Drowsy, Harry detracted briefly from his book—which was titled _'Banishing and Vanishing: An Intermediate Almanac to Charms!'_—and glanced at the tally marks she had made at the corner of her paper.

"Yeah, well..." absent-mindedly, he began to leaf through the chapter. "Cedric _is _pretty dashing," he said.

Nodding along, Hermione made a soft sound of agreement, just as vacant as Harry before her hand then slowed, hovering above the page (it read, _'Are YOU guilty of buying counterfeit brooms?!'). _

Beside her, Ron's brow knotted to the middle of his forehead, a chock-full of bread almost fit to burst from behind his clamped lips and he made one more hesitant chew.

"I… right," said Hermione. There were a few lost seconds, where she elbowed Ron's side without looking directly at him, "_Right?" _

Ron opened his mouth before he even swallowed his food, "One hundred pershent a _prinsh_ in my eyesh!"

In the muffle of his weariness, Harry gave a sleepy nod and went back to his book. Silently Hermione and Ron returned to their respective headlines and plates of food too, thinking better than to pursue and ask. Instead, they tucked this moment away for another time, another day. Later, they faced one last, deeply unpleasant inspection from Umbridge during Charms, riddled with questions that punctuated after every part of the lecture.

It was the trembling hands held behind Professor Flitwick's back that betrayed his usual smile, and he seemed to skirt around any mention about part-Goblin heritage—which otherwise he was_quite _proud of, at least by many in the class who knew him—however, as the professor withdrew and began to walk around class, inspecting their wand techniques; Umbridge shadowed him like she did Trelawney and then took out _a measuring tape _from her pocket—

_BOOM!_

Before any of the class could call out indignantly, it was at this moment that Seamus somehow ignited his own hand-mannequin in a brilliant flash of light, sparking streaks of fire across every table nearby. Many students screamed in the chaos of the explosion and erupting flames and threw themselves over the long desks, and Harry caught a flash of Dean as he rushed away; his shoulders trembling and a _mad_ grin on his face, almost as if he were about to have a fit of laughter. Meanwhile, Flitwick hurried to put the out fire with sudden enthusiasm, leaving Umbridge stumped and alone in the corner.

When class finally ended and they all filed out of the room in various states of buzzing excitement or dismay (Hermione was quite disappointed that they hadn't gotten _further_ ahead in the textbook), Dean caught up to a soot-covered Seamus, something-of a bright mirth dancing in his eyes. It was only when they did their secret handshake, something that—Harry had not seen _happen _since their arrival—that the thought suddenly occurred to him: perhaps, the explosion wasn't so **_accidental_**, after all. And it seemed that Flitwick had also thought of the same thing, proven, when he palmed an orange-wrapped fizzle lolly into Seamus's bag, the next day.

From here, the week ended rather peacefully.

By the time the third Monday of term rolled by, the mountains blew a wave of crisp air that sent leaves scattering, plastered like autumnal mats across courtyards: the fireplaces broke out in coal-worn bloom, and every denizen of the castle began tugging and pulling tighter onto their scarves and hats and cloaks as they marched through seas of fall.  
Ron had a few more Quidditch practices—official and non-official—and was ecstatic to have not been shouted at, during the last two; all three of them had managed to vanish their mice in Transfiguration with Hermione having progressed to vanishing _kittens_; and while their slough of homework, classroom hours and expectations did not let up: Ron and Harry slowly grew accustomed to their more studious reality, and even joined Hermione when she started to study with Cedric in the library.

Secretly, Harry liked to think that he would have joined in _eventually _but there wasn't a chance to prove that, when Ron made a sudden habit of hauling him along on his spare afternoons.

He had only spent a few days sidled up to the window, with even _fewer_ words of exchange before finally, he grew sick of things as they stood and without thinking; Harry grabbed a random book from his overstuffed bag.

"Could you teach me this?" he asked.

It had been a long day. A little ways beyond, under a warped wooden bookshelf dedicated to tree-burrowers and feathering roots, Ron lay fast asleep while Hermione stealthily draped her own cloak across his shoulders. At their usual table—lit up by lanterns and candleflame—Harry slowly slid forward a textbook and looked, patient, at boy across from him.

"What?" said Cedric, blinking several times.

"I just thought… _you_ could probably explain theory better than the book…" said Harry, glad that smudges of his glasses almost melded the darkness and candlelight together, obscuring his vision ever so slightly. He kept a stoic face, but felt the words coming out of his mouth reverberate at a pace _tenser_ against his throat than usual.

"Will you help me?"

"Yes—! Yes, okay, err," Cedric sounded a little breathless, and he scrambled to put his own papers aside before reaching for—at least, what _looked_ to be—a well-doodled Transfiguration leatherback that lay between them.

"Thanks," said Harry, quietly.

Under a breath, he heard a murmur in return.

_"Gladly." _

* * *

To touch more on their classes and study, as usual Umbridge's lectures—if they could even be _kindly _called that—dragged on _hopeless_ as ever, to the point where an exceptionally rambunctious crew of fourth and third-years made games out of trying to pull the most ridiculous stunt beneath her notice.  
Many of them, of course, had greatly underestimated Umbridge's keen toad eyes and were given detentions, but Harry did not encounter the offenders hiding their hands in any particular fashion afterwards.  
What little rumours he had collected from conversations with Ginny and Luna—they had become a startling pair—so far only described some of the whispered ambiguities and speculations of what constituted the frightening amount of framed cats on her office walls. Other than that, there was absolutely _nothing_ to suggest that they suffered at the hands of the Black Quill: barely anyone seemed to be truly _afraid_ of her. And even though he could not make up his mind about it—whether to feel glad or _resentful_—for now, Harry appeared to be the only target of her abuse.

"_Tsk, tsk, tsk… _healing again, Mr Potter?" she said. It was the fourth week now and he had only just entered the room. Already, she snatched his arm with her perfectly pink and pointed nails, "I thought I've told you, it greatly derails the _point_ of these punishments,"

Harry kept his eyes low and said nothing.  
Often, he had asked Hermione to make more of her tonics. Often, after having reconciled _somewhat: _Cedric had healed him, silently, at the library.

Umbridge continued, ignoring his silence. "I wonder… Madame Pomfrey hasn't gotten any visits from you, this year, has she? Who _is_ it that nurses you so faithfully?"

Harrys head snapped forward, venomous and glaring.

Umbridge didn't flinch. In fact, her eyes grew brighter in a sudden dose of entertainment.

"Now, I asked you a _question_, Mr Potter—"

_"Go **fuck **yourself." _

"Ah," Umbridge smiled sweetly at him. "Another week then, I think,"

In the fifth week, Harry sharply regretted his outburst.

It was a Tuesday morning when he just arrived at the Gryffindor table for breakfast and Angelina grabbed him, shouting so loudly—_"SKIPPING QUIDDITCH AGAIN, ARE WE?!"_—that Professor McGonagall uprooted herself from the staff table and swept down upon the pair of them.

"Miss Johnson, how _dare_ you make such a racket in the Great Hall! Five points from Gryffindor!"

"But, Pr-Professor! He's gone and landed himself in detention, _again—!"_

"What's this, Potter?" said Professor McGonagall sharply, rounding on Harry. "Detention? From whom?"

"From Umbridge…" muttered Harry, not meeting her beady, square-framed eyes.

"Are you telling me," she said, lowering her voice so that the group of curious Ravenclaws behind them could not hear, "that _after_ my issued warnings, you have gone and lost your temper in Professor Umbridge's class again?"

"It hasn't been just _one_ time, Professor!" Angelina said, furious despite Harry's feverish expression warning her not to, "He's had detention every week for ages now!"

If Harry were never to see another person's eyes burst into flame, the way McGonagall's pupils seized in anger would come close enough, "Potter, you must get a grip on yourself! You are heading for serious trouble!"

"I'm not doing it on purpose!"

"Not doing _what _on purpose?" Professor McGonagall demanded, her stern voice chilling.

"No," Harry muttered, speaking to the floor. "It's not…"

_"No?"_

Harry clenched his wounded hand into a fist inside his robes but could not let himself bring it into the light. He felt the eyes of Ron and Hermione who sat at the table below him, and when he glanced right—among the dozens of others half-heartedly observing the scene—he saw the familiar faces of Cedric, Hidiyah and Evan, pointed his way.

"Professor," Harry said this so quietly, even Angelina could not hear. "I promise, I've been _trying! _It isn't even my fault most of the time! I swear she's just aiming for… she _knows _that I have Quidditch on Fridays, and she… it's only…"

As he stammered through the thousand-word essays of reasons, and whys and why-not's skimming inside his head, Harry swore that through it, the grim line on McGonagalls brow weakened, if ever so lightly.

"I will have to take points if you do this again, Mr Potter," she muttered, breathing sharply out her nose, and then continuing louder, "However, Miss Johnson, you _will_ excuse his detentions for the week—"

_"WHAT?!"_

"—and you will _confine_ your shouting matches to the Quidditch pitch in the future or risk losing the team Captaincy!" McGonagall ordered, somehow talking over Angelina despite not having raised her voice. They were at least half-a-head taller and yet it felt like she simply towered above them, waiting with an unflinching glare until her students nodded slowly; meek, as she strode off toward the staff table once more.

Angelina gave Harry one last infuriated look before stalking away, and it was at this moment that Harry flung himself onto the bench beside Ron, postured in bewailment though no sound came out.

"It's alright_,_" Ron coaxed, palm patting Harry thickly in between his shoulder-blades, "you've _convinced_ her somehow…"

Harry groaned. "She's going to take points off Gryffindor because I'm having my hand _sliced open_ every night!"

"Well that's only if you get another detention, which I know you won't…" Ron immediately pulled a face, "err…"

"Did you see Angelina's face? She'll kick me off the team!"

"No, she _won't—"_

From the crook of his elbow, Harry glowered.

"—she wouldn't do it _immediately!"_ cried Ron, "She'll have to find someone _better_ than you first…"

Hermione's eyes popped above her copy of the Daily Prophet, peering down at them from over a picture of a fervent Cornelius Fudge.

"You think McGonagall's right, don't you?" said Harry angrily, he did not like the way Hermione stared at him.

"Of course not!" she whispered, "Not _entirely!"_

_"There_ it is."

Ron frowned, "Harry…"

"Listen. I wish she wouldn't take points from you, but I think she is_ right_ to warn you not to lose your temper with Umbridge,"

_"She _did it in class two weeks ago!"

"That's not the point, that's…" Hermione sighed like it had been lodged in her throat for a while and set down _The Prophet_ on the table with a quick _fwap!_ "Look you've already been lectured enough,"

"Well it sounds like you're ready to—…. where are you going?" said Harry, vexed.

Hermione had gotten to her feet and begun to stow things away into her bag, "I'll see you all later," she said, briskly, and then she rushed off.

"Why's she leaving?" Harry said, turning irritatedly toward Ron. He didn't look ready to be the new subject of his friends ire, and simply shrugged.

"She's just worried about you… I mean, look, we both _are_, right? I'm sure McGonagall is, and by a long shot, so's our Captain so… _I don't know_… maybe you could stand to be a bit more _cautious?" _Ron's voice was abnormally high, "At least… for these few days?"

Annoyance struck in deeper pit of Harry's stomach.

"Like any of _you'd_ understand," he snapped.

Ron blinked.

"That's not what I meant…" he began to say, but Harry did not appear to be listening anymore as suddenly, he reached over to newspaper that Hermione left behind and began to leaf through it, despite the both of them knowing that he absolutely hated what The Prophet had to say.

"Harry… _oi!"_

A page flicked. Harshly.

"Of all the bloody… Fine." Ron stuffed a piece of pastry inside his mouth and pursed his lips closed, quiet for the rest of the day.

* * *

Friday night, fifth week.

Harry Potter had finally left a detention _without_ incurring a further sum of more.

Empty corridors soaked in sundown as their torches held back darks and shadows, mounted like long strips of curtain that stretched to the tight corners of the castle walls. And down them, Harry wandered through.  
He stumbled with a keeled spine, crouching over his knees, his face so far lowered that it nearly kissed the floor. A sweaty hand scraped as it pushed him forward, between stone statues and pillars, the sway of his body only steadied when he gripped onto them in grunting pains and enervation.

Umbridge had learnt.

_Oh_, she had learnt.

There was no mistake. Whether by her own twisted design or with someone-elses help, Umbridge's Black Quill had intensified in its capacity to deliver, so much so that perhaps—in his dreadful state—Harry felt… _just a_ _little_ regret over his recent boldness.

In the sharpness that wracked his arm, he was almost delirious with nausea; clutching onto his shredded hand and hiding it in the folds of a scarf as he burst through, little by little, staggering through the castle halls—unable to keep his eyelids from dipping closed—before finally, he fell forward and found that he had finally reached the entrance of the library.  
Harry bit down the insides of his mouth, grimacing as he unwrapped the scarf and exposed his trembling hand, its deep gashes oozed out in blood, still yet to dry; still sore and tender as the air seemed to slice through the open wounds. Without hesitation, he felt his instinct kick in and he hobbled through the archway: limping through aisles of tall bookshelves with heavy, bated and shaky breath; unsure of whether it was the air of a fast-growing night, or the dust of the old reserves that stung at his hand so harshly as he _just _grazed past hitting library shelves head-on.  
When, in his almost-drunken stupor, his hand _did_ hit a shelf, it felt like if acid or loose grains of salt pressed and dug against his wounds. Harry became grateful for the tongue caught between his teeth, it squashed his hurt cries inside his throat, and he bit and clenched until he felt sure his teeth would _crack: _the pounding of a dull but fervent throb ricocheting across his bone. The room swayed around him and Harry lurched sideways, slamming into a desk. Another eruption, the throbbing intensified until he swore his whole hand rattled. Harry did not know, nor did he care in the moment whether he was being a disruption in the cool silence of the library; his hand jerked and he grunted, shifting, sweltering, suffering in the angry ache of his hand as it washed over him in tidal waves: sirens and a rupturing teared apart the insides of his head.

"…arry? Hullo, I thought you were meant to be—_woah!" _At the sound of that soft voice, Harry shakily rolled off the desk and fell against a familiar set of arms.

_"Ce—dric," _a low grunt.

"Oh no..." he felt two hands shaking his shoulders, but his body could only slump, giving into the dizziness, to the waves. One arm scooped under him and began, desperately, to help him stand, "Hang on, Harry, just... _hang on!"_

* * *

Darkness had taken the outside. Around them loomed sprawling shelves of the library and in the dim light, Harry rest his hand against a wooden table; watching as radiant streaks bound across from Cedric's fingertips to his, the ache that struck in red-hot searing pain between his arm to his chest, healed better with every breath.

Sitting in front of him, Cedric had his eyes closed: his murmurs mixed with shallow breath, the barest hints of sweat collecting on his brow. Behind his chair, in the meld of shadow, stood Ron and then Hermione: Harry had heard their voices when Cedric dragged him blind, deeper into the library. They were frantic and the echo of their panicked steps rang in Harrys ears, discordant in his nausea. He had felt hands cup and palms stroke his face, and he had heard them say _"Are you alright! Are you alright Harry?" _and swear, _"That bloody woman!" _

But now, with his bleary eyes open, Harry could see something _different_ settled inside his friends; the excitement had passed them. Hermione stood, half in darkness and half in light with her arms crossed, the slant of her brow nearly knitted together as she looked upon them.

"… If you're going to be angry, I'd rather you be out with it," said Harry suddenly. He glanced upward as below him, the light sewed into his skin. He watched Hermione straighten, startled, but before she could respond, it was Ron that walked forward.

"What _good_ would that do?" he said. Harry straightened too. He and Hermione turned, surprised; surprised at the way their friends voice _shook,_ "It's not like it's stopped you before… right? We're lucky that this was the last of it for now, but if no one's talked _sense_ into you, then…"

Annoyance.

"It's not like I'm going around looking for trouble, _she's_ the one swinging for _me."_

"And how many times d'you expect to keep going like that?" Ron said, he was neither loud nor quiet, and yet the chord of his voice struck like metal in the air. "You've been saying it for ages now! You don't figure it's _an_ _excuse?"_

"What do you want me to say?" Harry rose swiftly from his seat, "And what am I s'posed to do then: _stay put? _She came for _Lupin!_ She's been threatening about Hagrid, and—and Hermione and Cedric, nearly! You've seen the kind of person she is, how am I supposed to—"

"I know!" Ron said, his face red, "I get it! I just wish _that_ didn't result into this! I can't stand watching you go through it, over and over—"

"How is that _my fault?_" Harry demanded, "Would you rather that I didn't tell you about my detentions? Does it hurt your delicate sensibilities so much _that—" _

"Stop! Stop it!" Hermione stepped into the light and put a hand out, as if to hold the both of them apart as they inched menacingly toward each-other, "There isn't _anything worth_ in arguing like this,"

Harry breathed hard. He felt something dark erupt and fester from behind his scar. "Do you think it too, Hermione? Are you 'tired' of _seeing _me like this?"

"Harry…"

"Because I'm tired of _being_ like this as well! But I can't help it, can I? You don't understand, none—! _None of you understand!"_

"SHUT! UP!" Ron bellowed, he looked _enraged_. "SHUT UP! '**_We_**_ don't_ _understand'? _It's_ **YOU **_who can't understand, Harry! Even _you _can't compete with the kind of person that woman is, you've seen the news! She's backed by the Ministry! If the—!" Ron's voice quietened to a low, hiss— "If the _Order _can't make bold moves and attempts against Fudge and Umbridge, I don't see how _you _can!"

From the tips of his ears to the skins of his knuckles, Ron was red and shaking, and his chest shuddered in and out in deep breaths that sliced through the library's silence.

Hermione's voice rang out soft and careful, "Ron…"

"You think I'm an idiot," said Harry, chest heaving. His voice had leapt from his chest and he felt that dark thing shroud behind him—like the library shadows had grown blacker, _deeper—_felt the anger course like another heartbeat, spread like mold into a scowl that weighed lead into his face.

Hermione's voice again, "No, Harry, he doesn't! He's just—"

Ron glowered at him.

"I think you're a _fool,"_ he interrupted, "not an idiot."

"Ron, stop. Both of you, _stop!"_

The library was quiet and empty. Despite what may have been said earlier, Harry doubted that anyone could've heard his cries of pain, or even this row: it may as well have been only them remaining inside.

"Who are you supposed to be, _Harry?"_ there was a shift in the air. Ron's voice cracked at his name.

It was hardly deliberate. From the reds of his face and knuckles, one could tell that Ron was still cross, but his voice split in the air like the fissures of pavement, and suddenly Harry felt doused in an awfully familiar feeling: almost like a pail of water dripped down from the top of his head, blistering against the dark embers roiling up his chest.

"I don't recognize you anymore," said Ron. Harry felt his face loosen.

"What are … what're you talking about?" he said, startled. "It's still _me, _Ron. I don't… I'm still… _me…"_

"I told you before—" and Harry knew exactly when he was talking about— "Hermione and I, we're supposed to help you with… with the _living_ after your surviving and all that, but you aren't… you don't seem to want to join us, _at all._"

"You keep going like this, and you think _it's_ _fine _because you're still standing in spite of everything but _look at you! _You're just a kid._ We're kids._ We're runts of things like the Order, and the likes of Umbridge! And I don't know what kind of _sick_ satisfaction you get from striking back at her and hurting yourself but _this—!"_ Ron shook his head. "None of this has actually damaged _her: _it's only marred you and everybody else around you! Have you ever thought about that?!"

Rons hands had been tightly balled into fists, his knuckles as red as his face and ears; they shook now, but _not_ out of anger. Instead he stared out at Harry resolute, his shadow cast in greater size against the walls of the library, serrated only by the bookshelves that lay in between.

For an _instant:_ Harry felt his rage water down. He felt the shadows that enveloped behind him dull, like he had suddenly sobered from seeing red. And he realized that an incredible amount of pressure that been centred around his scar, _alleviated_ if only a little. He didn't know what to do.

_He didn't know what to **do.** _

_Say something!_ said a voice inside his head._ Quickly!_  
_Before you lose him,_ _quickly!_

But then, Ron suddenly pivoted, and he began to walk rapidly away.

"Ron. _Ron!"_ Hermione called out, her voice strident in the silence. She shot a helpless look before promptly, she grabbed two bags from underneath the table, "I have to go… sorry…"

Her footsteps receded and then she too, quickly disappeared from sight.

Harry fell back into his chair with a great _thwump!_ as if the strength had gone out of his knees.  
His hand ached terribly.

"Well…" said Cedric, his brow had cooled. His chest rose with steady breath, but his face was blanched as he turned to face him.

Harry stared back, still in a state of shock, having barely registered his presence in the last three minutes.

"Shall we bandage your hand?"

* * *

There were a few sticks of waxen taper melted on parchment and a single, tall candelabra that burned, its warm lowlight glowing deep inside the library; flickering every so often like a pulsing heart that streaked out into dark recesses and the empty alcoves.

Cedric had attained what appeared to be a small, wooden chest: multi-layered, and when opened, spread into a shape similar to a set of stairs. The lowest drawer held rows of corked tubes of various murky liquids and dewy plants, while the higher tiers were packed with things like dry herbs and crystals; stitching needles and thread; various metallic instruments like scissors and scalpels, and finally; several rolls of terracotta and beige-coloured fabric.

Harry sat wide, resting against an elbow that balanced on his knee, while he looked out of the library's tall windows. Night had fallen with the rain, and there was a soft patter as the glass panes ran slick. He glanced at Cedric who held his hand gingerly, bandaging it with such care and concentration that the silence between them felt _deafening. _When he finished, tucking the stray end of the binding into its folds, Harry finally opened his mouth to speak.

"I'm—"

"Harry… oh!"

"Ah,"

They blinked at each other.

"You—"

"—You first… erm…"

"No, no, you can go, it's fine," Cedric said, his grey eyes looked so gentle in the light. "I'm listening."

Harry averted his gaze.

"… you haven't said anything."

"What?"

"You don't have anything to say? About this?" Harry raised up his bandaged hand, "Or about... I'm sorry that you had to see _that, _earlier,"

"I think enough has been said tonight," Cedric shifted to move forward but then he hesitated, "enough has been said, though… I don't_ disagree_ with Ron's view of things,"

"Hm."

"But I reckon… I don't know. I'd do the same thing, all things considered," he sighed.

"What d'you mean?"

Cedric smiled, grimly. "Not be able to keep my mouth _shut."_

"Oh," Harry looked down. "right."

They sat in silence. Then,

"Why didn't _you_ say anything?"

Harry shifted in his seat.

"We've been studying together for _weeks_ now," Cedric continued, his brow furrowed, "I didn't even know you still _had_ detentions…"

_Oh. _

Harry stayed quiet. Timidly, he touched his bandaged hand.

"I didn't want to ask more of you," he said. "It feels wrong."

He paused.

_"I_ feel _wrong."_

Cedric reached forward, before he stopped again.

"Tell me," he said. The air felt dry.

Harry shook his head. He didn't want to, but he couldn't do anything else,  
"I don't know how to say it yet," he said.

"Ah." Cedric faltered. And then he sat back into his chair, thoughtfully murmuring as he looked at his feet. "I see…"

"Sorry," said Harry. And then he said it again, suddenly, _"Sorry."_

Cedric raised his head.

"What for?"

"It wasn't the last time," Harry gave a small, bitter smile. "The first week when we promised… It wasn't the last time,"

_Oh. _

Cedric brought his hands together in a single fist and hid the bottom half of his face, willing himself _not_ to press his warmth against Harry's taut fists.

"It was only a hope of sorts, don't mind it," Cedric said, stroking his thumb, nervously, "I've never _hated_ healing, so… just don't mind it,"

"Well, thanks for always, _erm..._ for this," Harry held up his dressed hand, flexing his fingers.

"It's alright, you don't need to—" Cedric suddenly thought of something— "You don't need to ask. It's not an _ask_ or anything to take care of you, I…"

He swallowed.

"I do it because I _want_ to... ca... _care _about you_, _I mean, it's because… I want to." Cedric glanced up, "And I'm sure, so do Hermione and Ron."

Harrys expression which had softened, furrowed now at the last line.

"Right…"

Cedric got to his feet and began to store things away. "I'll be here, if you have anything to say," he said and Harry nodded dully.

He listened a while to the sound of the box being packed up: the muted thump of fabric landing inside its drawer, the heavy _dink!_ of the metal scissors as they were placed away; clinking as bottles were stored and the creak of wood as the chest folded back into itself, closed. Then, he suddenly remembered.

"Actually, I do need to ask you something… something else."

"Okay, go ahe—"

"Why'd you say that you _were _happy?"

Cedric paused. "What?"

"Remember? When we were walking back to the castle—" Harry squirmed, suddenly embarrassed— "weeks ago now, at the Owlery. When you told me about _things_. I had… I had asked if you were happy that I wouldn't be pursuing Cho..."

_Oh. _

"Right, right,"

"And you said 'yes'… that… _erm_… why?"

Neither of them turned to look at each other. Harry sat back in his chair, looking into the darkness of the library and Cedric stood behind him, facing the other direction, holding very tightly onto the edges of the table. They did not dare to look back at each other.

"Why... _well,"_ Cedric fumbled for the latch on the chest and snapped it shut, turning to Harry with a stiff smile, "it'd be awkward. A friend and Cho… being who she was to me last year… _together… _erm, "

Oh.

Harry leapt from his seat, twisting around. "Right! Right, yes, completely,"

"I just thought it would be _weird... _of course, I don't mean to restrict! If... if you _really_ wanted to..."

"No! No. I'm not asking because _I want to_ or, _err,_ anything… I told you before I just—" with his good hand, Harry ruffled through his messy hair. His glasses slipped to end of his nose, and he frantically tried to hide his own embarrassment as he chuckled nervously, "I won't lie, it's been bothering me, but I understand now… thank you, erm…"

"Oh. R-right,"

"Yeah."

"Well then, I… err,"

"I'll see you later!"

"Yes! S-see you later!"

Harry made a break for it then, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He rushed out and had only gone a few long strides before suddenly, he turned back—footsteps thundering—poking his head from behind a shelf.

"Cedric," he said, out of breath, _"thank you."_

Cedric, who had just picked up his own bag, a bundle of papers, and had tucked his wand into his arms; looked up.

"For what?" he asked.

"Everything," said Harry, simply.

_"Oh."_

"I'll see you tomorrow?"

Cedric paused. And then a wry, boyish smile broke out onto his face, and he nodded.

"Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight, Cedric."

And then Harry ran again—not _away _but off—not caring how heavily his feet pounded on the wooden floor. Madam Pince could scold him all she wanted.

He crossed through the corridors and leapt up the stairs, _thank goodness, _he thought again and again, _I can still talk to him. We can still talk _**_normally._**

At least, he could have _this_ much.  
At the very _least_, the thrum of his disquiet should simply stay inside his own head.

* * *

_Alright_.

Harry thread his hands through his hair and stood up, walking out of his dorm-room and descending down the stairs towards the Gryffindor common room. A few days had passed since that night. There was nothing of note, though… no, _perhaps…_  
There was one thing.

They had stopped meeting up in the common room like always.

Though the weekend had staved off the immediate heat of that night in the library, somehow, Ron always woke up early, escaping to the Great Hall before Hermione and Harry even got dressed; grunting, when eventually they had found the table he sat at and offering nothing else. Harry could not claim that he acted any different, it was bad enough that they had every single class together; the last three days had been spent in almost absolute silence, walking through the castle corridors several meters apart and only _when_ forced to in class, did they ever bother exchanging a few curt words.  
_Unlike_ their disagreement last year, they did not avoid each-other, but it seemed that Hermione had once more become wedged between them; her friction with Ron forgotten as she became the new intermediary of the coming days. It was not all bad though, it was much easier to dispel the tension with Hermione in between.

She chattered nervously about everything and nothing, and most of their long hours together were spent studying in the library at her direction. However, at some point along the way, Harry had begun to feel Cedric's heavy gaze, which—when he had caught his attention—nearly always looked pointedly between him and Ron.

It was the same question everyday:

_Have you two made up?_

_No, _and Harry would shake his head an umpteenth time.

But today, he had resolved to make an effort. An apology.  
The start of a conversation, at least.

He strolled through the common room, the late afternoon sun lighting up oak tables and red-lined cushions and chairs in a brilliant blaze, and nervously he fiddled with his glasses as he took a seat.

_"Harry!"_

"Ron!" sooner than he thought, his friend burst through the portrait-hole, wheezing, as Harrys fingers fumbled with his glasses; smudging them even more.

"Listen, about the other day, I'm really—"

"—Forget that! _It's Cedric!"_

Harry dropped his glasses.

"What?"

"I just saw him walk out of Umbridge's office," said Ron, breathlessly, "I think he got a detention!"


	37. Hurt & Home (I)

The world rushed, a flurry of grey-stone corridors, autumn leaves, and voices shouting, _'Watch it Potter!' _that streamed rapidly past him.

In brief snatches, Harry heard the paintings and portraits admonish, _gasp_, as he skidded past them, rounding the banisters, and then soaring down the stairs. He could even hear the small figure of Sir Cadogan gallop along from frame to frame, the _clank!_ _clank! CLANK!_ of his metal armour thundering as he crashed amongst a water-coloured lily pond, and behind one wizard portrait's oil-painted desert.

Never had his feet pound so hard against the floor, and neither had the ghosts—who never moved for anyone—felt more stirred to waft slightly to the right, in order to get out of his way. His breath spilled, and his lungs ached, and when Harry reached the library, it took all that he had to simply walk inside: it took all that he had to pretend like the wind had died down inside him, and to look at each of the huddles of tables and _pretend, _that no panic had taken dreadful root in the inner framework of his chest.

Everything felt enormously loud.  
The beat of his heart, the shape of his deep breaths; despite the flurry of things that Harry felt inside, the world was now stagnant around him, _no,_ it simply moved forward in an unusual way.

Walking further in, there were a handful of students who were buried under their heavy books and unfurled scrolls, scrutinizing him like a passing oddity. From the rafters, he swore that more eyes followed, dissecting his every exhale, and as Harry tread on, his chest hoisted with a feeling unlike any other: winding and winded, the cold air stuck fast under his lungs, _seeping_ into his throat, and those gazes closing in like the toothy maw of an iron cage. Footsteps tapped behind him.

With tangled hair scattered rich from the run, Hermione lurched forward, and held onto his arm to steady herself, gasping as she stooped over, holding her other hand to her stomach—

"Wait, _oh_, just wait! I've got a stitch!" she cried, hoarsely. Following right behind her, Ron came to a halt, indubitably pink in his freckled face. He wiped a bead of sweat that had dripped down to his chin and began to glare at the people who eyed them.

"Mind your own business." he said, _not-so-_discreetly. A pair of third years dove behind their books.

_"Ron!" _

"What!"

"Let's just go," Harry said, shaking his head urgently. He looked down at Hermione, "Are you alright?"

She straightened, swaying slightly on her feet but nodded, and they began to walk along: puffing, shallow-breathed, bearing faces made of stone.  
In a forward march, they delved deeper into the library. Harry gripped his cloak, he felt the sweat collect on his brow and the eyes follow him from behind shelves and over the railings of the rafters… but they walked on.

In that dark corner of the library, the late afternoon dripped through slim-arched windows: slivered reflections of cobalt-stained glass and wider exposures of stream-lined dust were cast upon a wooden table, one that looked like it had been freshly sliced off a tree-stump. There, Cedric sat, a stretch of vine flowered white wrapped around his right hand. In front of him, Evan, with his eyes closed—the tendrils extended from his fingertips—and Hidiyah, hovering behind, nervously.  
She held tight onto a small tin of bloodied tissue.

_"Cedric!"_

In the low-slung beams of light passing through stained windows—veins of each wooden plank painted in strips of ruby, bronze, and deep amethyst—the trio turned a corner and stood only thirty feet away, their haggard faces poking through the shelves' potholed gaps. Left hand gripping the notched end of the table, Cedric made the beginning motions to shakily stand, before Hidiyah fastened a hand on his shoulder.

"You're not done yet," she urged, pulling him back. The light bounced off her golden hijab, and her fingers pressed, a gentle but sobering pressure through his robes. Hesitantly, Cedric buckled back into his chair, and the three Gryffindors surged forward.

"What happened!" Harry stomped to the table, forgetting for the moment where they were, _"What happened? _Why'd _she—"_

"—found out."

He stopped.

"What?"

"She knows that _I've_ been _hea—ling_ you—" said Cedric, grunting in between his teeth. The vines around his hand folded back as he moved his fingers without thinking, and he closed his eyes, wincing in pain— "found me, _ugh, _she found me after Herbology… said I shouldn't _'interfere with Inquisitorial business' _and issued me the detention right there—"

Suddenly, he gasped, the ends of which turned into the echo of a very timid laugh. It resonated with Harry, like a fist had knocked its way into the very middle of his chest and sunk through.

"Does it _always_ hurt like this?" Cedric asked, throatily.

_Schp!_

The vines retracted before Harry could answer. Across the table, Evan opened his eyes.

_"Tainted baster, _Ced! That woman got you good!"

Cedric slowly flexed his hand. It was clean, though the rounds of his palm still held the faintest traces of dried blood. Carefully, he hid it underneath a mustard-coloured scarf piled in his lap, "Do you think she'd notice?"

"I barely did anything, it's not even fully _closed… _Are you sure you'r—"

"Fantastic."

_"Fantastic?!"_ said Harry, aghast. "Hang on a moment! You're going in again?"

Cedric swallowed, the curve of his brow still bent in pain, "I got three days—"

"THREE days!"

"Shh!"

Like a looming owl, Madam Pinces large eyes peered from behind a bookshelf, regarding the lot of them garishly. Hidiyah coughed, vanishing the tin that she hid behind her back in an unexpected cloud of stardust, before she wordlessly beckoned all of them to the table.

The three Gryffindors sat down, timid, though Harrys expression looked much sharper than before, and they remained quiet until Madam Pince was out of sight. But even when she had gone, there remained an absurd amount of strained air, made worse by the solemn and silent faces around the table.

Here, Hermione's small voice piped up.

"Erm, I don't believe we've met, I'm Hermione Granger..." she began, and as Ron and Hidiyah soon followed in tow—introducing themselves in a strained-sort of fashion—Evan, meanwhile, swung around in his chair.

"Don't move, not even to make a _fist!_ I'll have a fit if it opens up because you don't have the proper binding," he said, hushed, as he took Cedrics hand from underneath the scarf and tapped it lightly with his wand. Harry marvelled as the wands tip flourished in a trail of leaves, and little alder berries dangling forth, _"Ferula!"_

Mid-air, bandages spun around Cedrics hand, wounding around it tightly. He sighed, slouching in his chair, "Thank you,"

"How do you feel?" asked Harry, immediately. Cedric grimaced.

"Better," he murmured, though no one could make it out as a pure and full truth.

Silence returned again. Evan took the opportunity to quietly introduce himself though he had less zest than usual, when Hermione fell for his Wright/Right joke; her soft _"oh!"_ and Evans polite laughter waning as the sun wilted a little further into the horizon.

"So… three days?" Ron echoed. He looked around, carefully, shielding his eyes from a fallen beam of sunlight. Beside him, hands folded politely on the table, Hermione's gaze flitted about too.

"It… It's a pretty _light_ sentence, considering how many times she's forced Harry," she whispered.

"Yeah, a real tricksy play from that woman," said Hidiyah. Evan nodded along humourlessly.

"I bet you the gargoyles on the South Tower still have nothing on _her_ stone heart,"

Cedric gave a feeble laugh. He had regained his breath but there was still about half a groan in the lowest lilt of his voice, and his skin had visibly drained into a still and pallid colour. Harry watched him—he had yet to take his eyes off—and felt a harsh and involuntary breath exhaled through his nose. His own wound tingled from underneath its bandages.

"I can't believe that'd she… for a bit of _healing…" _Hermione spoke, fragmented, almost like she didn't know how to finish her sentences, "And for you to, well... for your first time she's, _erm_, broken through rather quickly—"

"It's because she keeps upping the strength of that quill," answered Harry with a low, menacing air, "it'd take less than a day to draw blood now,"

"How'd she even find out?" Ron asked, "How'd she even know that you were healing?_" _

"Not like anyone else could've popped out those healing spells," said Hidiyah, leaning onto her elbow.

"'Still could be Hermione or me helping… in fact, it would've been even more _likely_," Ron turned to Cedric. "How'd she figure out it was you?"

Wearily, Cedrics eyes moved. They wandered just above Rons head and began to stare at a wall, a little further away.

"Maybe she hasn't yet," he said, vaguely.

"Pardon?"

"Maybe it didn't matter whether it _was_ me_, _or you, or Hermione,"

"What d'you mean?" said Harry, also confused.

"We know who she's working for, maybe…" Cedric pursed his lips, "Maybe, she isn't _actually_ punishing me for _a bit_ of healing then,"

They all stared at him as he sat, slumped in his chair, trying to digest his words.

"So… what?" Harry said, he clenched his hands in his lap. "Umbridge is just taking it out on you for _personal _reasons?"

Cedric shook his head. "No,"

"Then…" dread took quick root again, and Harry blinked quickly, "then, for the Ministry…?"

Cedric didn't say anything, and for a moment, they all feared that he had passed out somehow. Then, gently, he nodded.

"There are no secrets about the Boys Who Lied," he said. Harry sat back with a big breath. Hidiyah flung her hand out on the table.

"You're saying that she's done this to you 'cause… because you're associated to _Potter?"_

"It's because of _everything. _The Prophet, the noise and clamour around the _'Boys Who Lied'_… think about it for a moment," said Cedric, steadfast, _"Siri—... _We already know that they're worried about Dumbledore assembling an army—I mean, that's _why_ she's here—but it's not like she's hasn't done a little sabotage to get her way,"

Evan, Hermione and Rons heads snapped to him.

_"Pardon?"_

"How do you know?"

"There were _letters_ over the summer. Some were good—" he caught Harry's eye— "but _most _were bad. When I found out that I got taken off for Quidditch, there were a few from Umbridge _hinting_ that I could get it all back, but only if I renounced all the stuff about _You-Know-Who..."_

"You're _joking!" _Evan said, dumbfounded. Cedric shook his head.

"The Prefect demotion came rather quickly after I didn't reply,"

Hermione stood suddenly from her chair.

"That's_ awful! _Why would she—… you didn't even break _school_ rules! You hadn't done anything!"

"Yeah,_ besides _outing her employers as incompetent at best, and potential liars at worst—" Ron gave a grim look— "he's done nothing else to her,"

"What if she's just trying to provoke _you_ in some way?" Hidiyah suggested, looking toward Harry. "Maybe those letters and Ced's detentions are just one long… _vile_, round-about con to get at you, or—"

"If that was really her agenda, she would've gone for Ron or Hermione," said Cedric, a little too strongly, "it would've been the more obvious answer. And, I bet snooping around for evidence would've been easier too, but let's face it. If she was really intent on doing in the people who've wronged her… she doesn't _have_ any good reasons to go after _me_, not any good personal reasons anyway,"

With great effort, Cedric shifted in his chair.

"But, what do _you_ think? You've spent time with her," he said, looking attentively to Harry. "D'you reckon she's doing this because of some larger plan? Or, do you think she's just lashing out in some way, because she can?"

Until this point, Harry had been listening patiently, and now that lingering sense of dread tightened into an exhale that slowly withered down his shoulders. He brought his hands together.

"I think that it confirms everything that Siri—… that _we_ already knew," he said, straightening in his chair, "Umbridge just isn't the kind of person to take risks like this, not unless she's got someone or something to fall back on,"

And it didn't make sense for her, Harry thought, he could feel his stomach curdle at the amount of times that she had smiled at him so smugly: her stubby fingers having seized his newly healed hand, _countlessly,_ as soon as he walk through those doors.

"She'd only ever use the healing as an _easy_ excuse to give me more detentions," he explained, "so for Umbridge to come after you, something _has _to be going on: uncovering Dumbledore's 'army', or whatever else... when it comes to Fudge and the Ministry's agendas, it's not like they've been _against _playing dirty,"

Across the table, Harry could see Ron nod glumly to himself: the memory of Mr Weasley's tired smile playing in the slant of his eye. He scratched his cheek.

"Here's the one thing _I_ don't get. Why would he or the Ministry, with all their inflated egos, even _bother_ putting in time to do something like—!"

"SHH!"

Madam Pince glared at them, a closer distance this time. Her sharp footsteps punctured the silence that befell the table as everyone sheepishly reclined into their chairs. Huddling closer, Ron continued in an insistent whisper.

"Why would Fudge or the Ministry _care_ about some kids in the paper? The Prophet's done a good enough job _snubbing_ you both without—"

"We're students in open opposition against them," said Cedric, in a low voice, "and not just _any_ students either: I'm of age, and Harry—"

"I'm the Boy Who Lived," Harry said, resignated. Gravely, Cedric nodded, the sallowness of his expression, no longer tinged with the simple remnants of pain.

"Of course, there's nothing concrete to suggest _any_ of what we've been saying. Umbridge _could_ have been sanctioned by Fudge to hurt us or, she might be acting on a personal grudge, who knows? Just remember: _he_ put her _here,"_

Cedric leaned forward; his wounded hand precisely laid out on the table.

"Even if we know nothing else, we have to assume that she's been _mostly_ acting with their support, if not by their _directions,"_ he said, the trail end of his scarf falling from his lap to the floor, "and you can't forget the fact that she's been promoted to an even _higher_ authority now, one that no one—not even the _Headmaster_—can question,"

Evan let out a small noise—almost like _he_ had been the one hurt—as with one hand, Cedric wrenched the bandages around his arm.

"Going after me and Harry—" _SHRIP! —_ "trying to bully us into _shutting up—" SHRIP! SHRIP! — _"inspecting all the teachers and even looking out for all those students spouting the same 'Prophet-deemed lies'… its suspicious to say the least!"

Cedrics hand was now bare and exposed. The bandages laid strewn on the table, and he glanced warily at Hidiyah and Evan, "We know that Fudge is on the lookout for anyone associated _resistance _efforts against him, so… if all of these things _aren't _a part of whatever narrative that he and the Ministry of Magic are trying _push_…"

He began rolling down his sleeve.  
The sun had perfectly hit that low valley of the mountains, where its dying light refracted into an unstained, golden stream from the window, and they could all clearly see as blood wept from the words etched onto Cedric's skin—

_I must not help liars._

The table fell into a stunned silence, you could hear the dim creaking of wood and rustle of paper as just beyond them—maybe forty feet away—Madam Pince lifted books and leather-strapped scrolls into the shelves with a simple wave of her wand. But here, Cedric stared out at them, a touch pleading but wholly determined,

_I must not help liars._

Thin gashes oozed red on his skin. His bandages, again, laid strewn on the table beneath his arm.

"How much are you willing to bet that all of that is a simple _coincidence?"_ he asked, and no one dared to respond.  
Harry could hardly breathe from the way his chest collapsed and constricted in itself.

At the very edge of his seat, Ron threw his head back; the chair nearly toppled underneath the sudden shift of weight as he stared up into the ceiling, breathing hard, incredulous. He swore at it,

_"Bloody hell!" _

It travelled, extraordinarily brash, across the dead and dusty air. A clatter of books and scrolls rained down, disturbing their shocked silence as Madam Pince jumped—about half a foot into the air—in her immutable, sunlit spot.

* * *

Harry leaned forward; his fingers pressed against the little crooked table in between them all.

"What are we going to do?" he asked.

The sun had set.

Hermione was stone-faced beside him, her hands locked in a death-grip as she stared at the centre of the table, unseeing; Hidiyah fiddled with a bracelet around her wrist, but it was Evan who eventually glanced up at Harry, answering his question with a weak smile.

Madam Pince was sure to be lurking nearby.  
It wasn't long after Ron had cursed, when she stumbled into the long aisles that cut through each of the library's common spaces, her wrinkled eyes staring daggers directly at their table.

A new array of bandages had sprung around Cedrics hand, swiftly conjured so he wouldn't stain the wood. However, dark spots of crimson had already begun to discolour the terracotta, and Evan turned, briefly nodding toward him.

"You're _sure_ about not going to the professors for this?"

"No-one'll be able to do anything if she's still got those Educational Decrees going up," said Ron, quickly; he was still slumped in his chair and staring expressionlessly at the ceiling, while the rest of them stewed in the tenseness.

"Then, we'll have to wait it out," Cedric sighed, seat creaking. Harry looked at him in amazement.

"Surely, you don't mean the next three _days?"_

"No, he's right; don't you remember what she said at the start of term?" Hermione said, anxiously, "We mustn't forget that there might still be students out _spying_ for her"

_"Rot—"_

"In that case we shouldn't be seen having sneaky discussions like this, who knows what sorts of people are listening in—" Hidiyah glanced back and began whispering behind her hand— "I don't think Pince is too happy about us being here and _not_ studying, anyways…"

"But we haven't solved anything! We don't have a _plan_ besides—"

"We'll wait for three days and then meet up again," Cedric interrupted, "it's the safest route, there's not much else that we can do right now. In the meantime, that gives us a chance to think of our options…"

Hermione perked up.

"There's a Hogsmeade trip coming up this weekend; we could go to there to talk,"

"If Umbridge is in the Ministry's _evil little pocket,_ there can't be that many students _already_ out to get us, right?" said Evan. Hermione promptly shook her head; she had opened her mouth to say something when a new light coursed fleetingly through her eyes, and she screwed her lips tight.

"It'll be better if we do things outside… I don't think Umbridge would be very happy if she caught any wind of anything we've said so far,"

"Yeah... constant vigilance..." Ron echoed, listlessly.

Evan and Hidiyah looked at them both, puzzled.

"By the slimmest likelihood that our little conspiracy theory _may_ be right, I think it'd be good to exercise some distance and caution," Cedric said, opting to change the topic. "Being together like this could attract her attention, she might even make the excuse that some of _you_ have been healing me,"

"Well… I mean, I _did," _said Evan.

"All the more reason then,"

"I agree. We really have _got_ to get out of the castle; Umbridge's current focus on Cedric doesn't take away the fact that she still seems to be _targeting_ people around…" Hermione suddenly paused, going very still.

Harry stared back at her.

"You can say it," he said, blankly, "she's targeting everyone around _me,"_

"No! I didn't mean—_"_

"But it's the truth,"

"—Hogsmeade sounds _fine,"_ said Cedric, firmly. "We'll talk about it closer to the time, but for now…" he turned to Harry, murmuring under his breath.

"A word?"

Harry nodded. Their tense and strange pseudo-meeting seemed to break up at this point with Evan and Hidiyah getting to their feet, grabbing their bags under the table, and donning their scarves and winter coats, while Hermione and Ron began furtively whispering to each other; Harry heard the word, _'Order'_, and _'Lupin' _mentioned once or twice, before he and Cedric eventually strode off, standing by a (more or less) distant bookshelf.

In the windows, the castle moors lay a dark and faded blue, with the mountains jutting out against a vanishing stretch of red sky. The last catches of sunlight flashed, woven into the curves of Cedric's hair in a cast glow; an almost crimson light clung to the edges of his neck and head as he stared out in the library, the final scraps warming his back.

"Don't tell the others," he said, cradling his hand, "but it was the chest."

"I'm sorry?"

"The chest. The one I used to bandage you up. I took it from the hospital wing, with permission, of course… but I suspect that Umbridge must've come around asking. It's only way that she could've…"

An insipid voice pricked, brushing like spider legs in Harry's mind.

_"Madame Pomfrey hasn't gotten any visits from you, this year, has she? __**Who is it that nurses you so faithfully?"**_

Harry felt his stomach drop. It felt like such an unimaginable thought and sensation, that he could hardly believe he was still standing there, as Cedric quietly talked—...

_Was it that easy to slip up?_

Did that mean that Umbridge monitored Hogwarts even _closer_ than Harry could have ever imagined?

Was she dropping by the hospital wing every week? Every day? And how _did_ Hermione come by the ingredients for her salves and potions? Was she stealing the murtlap from the Potions pantry again? Would _she_ be the one to get found out, next, if Umbridge changed direction? If that were to occur, what were they to d—

"Don't look like that."

Harry glanced up, shaken. He could no longer see the dust floating in the air; the sun had dipped down into the mountains, and Cedric stared at him—no longer glowing—just tired and pale, with wide, grey eyes. The library's chandeliers and torches burst in sudden flame (they could hear the _pops! _of candles and lantern-wicks being lit, and more torches along the walls ignited) and Harry felt Cedric's hand loosen from his shoulder, letting it hit his side.

"Don't look like that, Harry," he said, again.

Harry did not ask.  
He did not know what he looked like, and nor did he care, but he clenched his fists. He struggled to reply with anything coherent, except,

_"You're hurt." _

Cedric shook his head. "We're even."

"We're not, it's my—… I can't even help _you,"_

"You won't help me or yourself any further if you go on like this," Cedric whispered, "There are other ways than trying to egg on a fight,"

"Is that what you think? Is that what I—... If I recall, a certain someone had originally wanted to do exactly _that—" _

"—and if _I _recall, a certain _someone else_ stopped me from doing so... and I'm grateful for it,"

Harry let out a heavy breath through his nose. His gaze fell to the floor before catching onto the end of Cedrics sleeve, the faintest outline of those words poking out of the fabric, in the dim light of the corner where they stood—

_I must not help liars. _

His face fell.

Cedric flinched, though more out of shock than pain. He felt Harry reach out and take his hand, fingers pressing gently against his wrist,

"I wasn't going to run off and _hex_ her," Harry quietly said, staring down.

"Great," said Cedric. He closed his eyes and willed his hand deathly still. "Don't do that either, then."

_"Ha," _Harry gave a thin smile. They looked at each other for a moment.

"Cedric, I'm—"

"—Sorry to interrupt your top-secret conversation, but I'm afraid that Pince is just about ready to _pinch_ our bottoms any moment now, if we keep lingering_…_" Hidiyah said, sweeping past them. Cedric let his head hang, smiling bitterly to himself_—out of time, again—_and he waited a moment, savouring, before he slowly took his hand back, and began turning to move. Harry grasped the fingers of his other hand, catching him, however.

Cedric looked back, startled, "What? What is it?"

Harry opened his mouth, and then closed it again, and then his lips parted and closed, unable to utter a single word.

"Harry?"

Harry grit his teeth, something of a thick cloud seized his throat, "I just wanted to say... your hand, I'm—"

"Cedric!" Evan boomed from the midst of the library, "Cedric, c'mon! Let's—_mfh!"_

With a flick of her wand, Hidiyah sent a screwed ball of parchment flying to his mouth.

"Ah… we'll… w-we'll talk later, okay?" whispered Cedric, hurriedly. "Sorry,"

Harry could only nod, despairing as he felt Cedrics fingers slip away.  
In the centre of the aisle, turning heads of other students packing up to leave (and one seething Madam), Evan, Hidiyah and Cedric began to rapidly walk away together.

Ron crept up beside Harry as he watched.

"Not nice, is it, seeing him like this?"

Out of sight, Hermione firmly thwacked him at the back of his head.

_"This is not the time!" _she hissed. Ron rubbed his head but said nothing.

Harry swallowed.

He trailed behind his friends as they began to leave the library too.

* * *

The courtyard lay under a darkening sky, the beginnings of whatever grass and vegetation alongside its curling stone path, faintly illuminated by surrounding corridors: their torched glow burning brighter as impressions of the sun burned into a swathing blue.

Harry stopped.

After they had left the library, he had been straggling far behind Ron and Hermione, wanting to be left alone to his own thoughts; but now they stood in the very the middle of the corridor, as if they had been waiting for him: the crisp, evening air sending stray leaves to disperse against the stone floor, while the hems of their robes drifted along, too.

Hermione immediately gestured to Ron, who looked like he was already fed-up—

"He has something that he'd like to say to you," she said, tentatively.

"No need." said Harry, as he ambled towards them. "I have something, I'd like to say first,"

He looked to Ron.

He looked to Ron and he searched for a sign.  
He searched for some signal that he was going about this in the right way, or that he had guessed _somewhat_ correct, but Ron only stared vacantly back at him: waiting.

So, Harry changed his mind.

"You were right. _Of course,_ you were right, and I would apologise—" Ron's brow furrowed. He began to open his mouth in what would come out as a snarl, except— "but you don't _want_ an apology, do you?"

The words swiftly died in his throat.

Harry looked to Ron.

"Not entirely, anyway," he said, staring intently at his surprised face.

Ron shut his mouth. He stood straighter and gazed at Harry with what seemed to be some deliberation, before finally, crossing his arms. He was listening.  
Hermione looked between the two of them, worried, though Harry knew that her own curiosity had also been piqued.

"Alright, then…" he said, and he took a great breath, "Alright, I'll try my best,"

Harry took his hands outside of his pockets. As if performing a ritual, he rolled up his sleeves and he gazed at his bandaged palm; he looked to the stone beneath his feet, felt his heart caught in his mouth, felt it beat much faster and denser than it ever had, _even_ in recent memory, and then Harry closed his eyes; he pressed his lips together in defeat.

"I feel _so _angry… **_all of the time." _**he said, strangling it out of his chest.

Harry's voice resounded, a low cadence that Hermione and Ron had never heard before this moment; grating, like the slow rumble of an entire ocean dark with wine, rolling above you.

"I can't _see_ anything else. I can't feel anything _besides_ how angry I am … out of nowhere, it comes along and at you, at the others, and, and… the _world,_ there's this _mounting—"_ Harry paused, mouth gaping for a second as he struggled for the words— "this mounting _pressure _that just makes me want to _scream." _

He kept his head down like it weighed heavily on his shoulders; he could barely tell if he was breathing, he breathed so hard, it felt like his lungs were made concrete and he could feel his nails digging into his palm; the skin stretched so tightly across the back of his fists, that he feared the scars would burst.

"And it feels _good,"_ another breath, _dense_, pushed through his chest,

"Yelling, and the… the blood-rushing parts of it—it feels _really _good. It feels like maybe, _for once:_ I'm just a tiny bit in control over everything, and I _hate _it—"

Harry savoured that word: _hate.  
_It rest on his tongue and shot out like a mortar, as he finally looked up and stared into the courtyards large and arched windows, "It feels _spectacular_, and I'm in control, and I _hate _it because it makes me want to hurt _all of_ _you." _

The wind whistled.  
Harry desperately wanted to hide.

He desperately wanted the words to flow like treacle, for each phrase to lance through the air with Hermione's eloquence, for the shape of each syllable to blanket in Ron's sincerity; he desperately wanted nothing else but to imitate—just _imitate—_and resemble _someone_ who had the barest amount of fluency in their own emotions! but Harry Potter did not know how else to _speak._ He did not know to _speak _about the things that _burrowed_ within him; he did not know how to say, or tattle on the things like the Graveyard, to people who could so easily regard it as an unpleasant dream.  
Desperately, _mournfully,_ Harry wanted to pluck the shame that had gathered in his cheeks and to give it to his friends, to do that and simply say, _There. _

Finally.

_There, this is what I mean.  
There, this is what __**I feel,**_ but he could not.

Of course, he could not, for every word that came out of his mouth dropped like coarse pieces of stone, broken off brittle, forgotten; for every inflection in his voice ripped readily into the air and rang hollow, it made it bleed; for, _of course_, at moments so pivotal like these… he did not know to be _vulnerable._

"This thing with Umbridge, it… she's the only one that hasn't—!" Harry raised his hands, as if he were to grab the air and choke it out in frustration, but then he forced them by his sides again.

"She _wants_ me to get angry, I think, so she can give me detentions. So, she can hurt and _punish _me—" _Breathe, Harry, breathe— _"because we both know that I can't really hurt _her_ back,"

His fingernails scraped at his robes.

"That's why I do it. I didn't _want_ to become someone that—… What I _want_ is to break it somehow, to just break it_ all;_ every deep and cruel thing that's wormed its way inside of me, but _I can't._"

Here, he laughed. He laughed in utter _amazement,_

"I can't! I can't do it, because it just feels like—! It feels like I'd be _shattering_ parts of myself..." his shoulders withered again. They shrunk down. "It feels like I'd be breaking parts of _me_ that I could never get back,"

And there they were, _still,_ coursing through him; these parts of him, _still, _screaming at him, screaming, get a_way. Get away! You don't owe them this!_

They don't understand,  
_I promise, they __**won't**__ understand. _

How could he explain his monstrous self? How could he explain that the smell of decay everyone had complained about, came from _underneath his very skin._ How could he explain or come to terms to the iron and coal inside of him?  
He never _wanted_ to show anybody how he kept himself safe… by burning his own stomach and choking his own heart in the smoke of his rage and resentment: Harry never wanted to explain, if it had meant giving his own eulogy.

"If I could break it… if I could break or stop myself, then I would. _I promise you,_ I would, but I supposed that can't happen, and that someone _else_ has got to do it_, _so I thought…" he blinked, empty, "I thought Umbridge and the Black Quill _could_. After all this time, I thought that she'd just be another thing I'd have to _bear,"_

Harry never stopped gazing outside of the window.  
As he spoke, the words burned as they came out of his throat, searing him, branding him and he stared into that open darkness—fast-approaching as it swallowed up the corners of his vision—and he saw some part of himself, found some strange solace, in it being there.

"But then _Cedric—"_ he sighed, it crushed his chest— _"Cedric... _I feel so stupid,"

**"Enough.** That's _enough." _

Harry looked to his right. Hermione had taken a step toward him. She was weeping.

_"Come here."_

He felt himself move forward. Like the tug of some invisible fishing line, he stumbled ahead as Hermione met him in the middle, her hands reaching for his face.

"You're hurt," she said. She didn't look at his hand—it had begun bleeding through the bandages, but—she gazed only at Harry's face. It was a wonder how she kept her voice so still. The tears streamed down, and she felt so _quiet_, so _weak,_ "You're _hurting."_

Harry placed a hand around Hermione's wrist, nodding. Her fingers shook.

"How can we help? How can we—"

_"You can't,"_ said Harry, finally, tiredly: _he felt so tired._ "That's what I'm trying to say… all the anger, all the hurting, I think it's just… I think it's a _part_ of me now."

Hermione's face crumpled. "Right,"

She let her hands drop, as she stared toward her feet.

"I'm—I'm sorry," said Harry, whispering down at her. He repeated this again—_I'm sorry, Hermione, I'm so sorry—_his hands hovering: half-way in between comforting her, half-way in between simply hugging himself. Then, he looked up.

He gazed at Ron who stood rooted to the spot, and his voice rang a little louder in the empty, stone corridor, "I'm sorry."

_"Don't be." _

Red-rimmed eyes. A sniff.

Ron walked over and put a hand between Hermione's shoulders.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asked. Harry considered.

"I don't know how to say things like… I never _know_—" then, he paused— "I thought you might've run away,"

"Never!" Hermione burst out, "_never!_ You don't deserve that _at all,_ you don't deserve any of this!"

"It's alright, Hermione," Ron said, he put a hand on her shoulder. "It's alright,"

Harry watched and felt himself gradually drift, again, out of place. He felt his cheeks burn as bright as the torches around them, and his pulse slow from the sprinting course that it had run.

"It's not_ alright!"_ Hermione said, suddenly, furiously. She wiped her eyes and drew her shoulders back, the strays of her dark hair sprung against the washed stone.

"The other night… the other night, you said that you had only survived so far because of _luck_. Because help came at the right time _just_ when you needed it,"

He nodded.

"But it's not _luck,_ Harry. It's not luck that people have chosen, time and time again, to stand by you and help," Hermione shook her head. Her eyes were fiercely alight, "It's not luck or chance or fate that's got any of _us_—me, Ron or Cedric included—to stay and be your friends! It's never been!"

"But it's difficult, isn't it. You can't deny, it's been difficult being friends with me—" Harry thought back to Ron's sullen face during their argument last year, to Hermione's anger over S.P.E.W., to Cedric's white-knuckled hands clenching Grimmauld's kitchen table—

"But it's _worth _it," said Ron, quietly. It caught the both of them unaware.

"You talk like you've been harder to love, but you've been _worth_ it,"

"Yes... Yes, that's right. We _know_ you, Harry, whether... whether this is a new you, or a new _part _of you: we'll still be here, and it's because we've _chosen _to," Hermione implored, "nothing more_,_ nothing less._"_

Harry stared at them, conflicted. A thought passed through his mind, so tangibly irrevocable that it must've crossed through his face, as well.

"Here," said Ron, he took Harry's hand.

"You feel that? You're not alone. You've never _been_ alone, not since you've stepped on that train in first year… not even since the moment you've been born—so, don't take this all on your own," Ron squeezed his hand. "Don't leave _us_ behind."

Harry's blinked, his fingers hovered out of Ron's grip, unable to press down.

"After everything I've said… after everything I've _confessed—… _I'm not the same person, you know! I'm not who I was _before_ last year, before even the graveyard! I might never be the same Harry that you've always known—"

"—neither am I. _I'm_ not the same Ron, _she's_ not the same Hermione, but that's how it _works,_ Harry. _We change._" Ron pulled their hands down. He stared at Harry resolutely, unflinching, "We change for better or for worse, that's how it's _supposed_ to be…"

"And what if you don't like how I change? What if, in the future, you come to hate who I am _more and more?"_

"We. Will. Be. _There,"_ Ron said, firmly, "regardless. You're not going to get away, not now, not ever… _not on us."_

Harry looked to Ron. His chest heaved with heavy breath, but he was breathing.  
_Merlin, _he was breathing.

"… you're sure?" he asked. One last chance.

Ron let out a short breath through his nose.

Laughter.

"You said it before, didn't you? My delicate sensibilities wouldn't be able to take it in any other way," the freckles on his face creased in a fond smile. "C'mon mate,"

Harry released a shaky breath. He let his fingers lock with Ron's own, and he held on.

"Alright."

Ron pulled. Harry tumbled into him.

He felt himself wrapped into a strong embrace from one side, and then something crashed from behind too, _Hermione;_ her arms wrapped around the both of their waists so tightly, and yet Harry could only feel it easier and easier still to breathe.

"Idiots!" she said, muffled. Ron laughed again. Harry leaned backwards and felt his friends hold him tighter, the pressure inescapable, and comforting. He laid his chin to rest on Ron's shoulder, smiling as he hugged back. Against the walls of distant torchlight, he gazed into their distant bloom.

Eventually, the three had begun their path again: striding through the courtyard, past the Great Hall, and clambering the foot of the Grand Staircase. By this point, Hermione's eyes were so swollen that she had latched onto Ron and Harry's arm, depending on them to keep her walking straight.

"Shall we do it?" Harry said suddenly. They were only a few steps away from the dozing portrait of the Fat Lady, when both of his friends stared at him, startled.

"What?"

"Do _what?"_

Harry look around and glancing beneath them, the stairs that cascaded all the way down, moving—marble shifting on stone—empty.

"I mean me, _teaching._ You were right, it wasn't _all_ luck that saved me every single time, there were also _people_ out there: capable enough and _willing_ to help me," Harry looked at them. "Just as there are people _here_, willing to believe in me, and willing to learn."

Ron's mouth dropped open.

"You're serious?" he said.

"Dead serious,"

"Absolutely positive?"

"Yeah,"

Hermione stepped forward.  
"Harry, are you sure you _want _to do this?"

"I do. It's just you and Ron, yeah?"

Ron nodded. Hermione, meanwhile, clutched at her fingers.

"Well," she said, now looking a mite anxious again. "Well... I really think you ought to teach anyone who wants to learn. I mean, we're talking about defending ourselves against V-Voldemort—oh, don't be pathetic, Ron—it doesn't seem fair if we don't offer the chance to other people."

Harry considered this for a moment, then said, "Yeah, but I doubt anyone except you two would want to be taught by me. I'm a nutter, remember?"

"Well, I think you might be surprised how many people would be interested in hearing what you've got to say," said Hermione seriously.

He continued walking up the stairs, with his two friends following behind, "Alright, well... that might change some things,"

"That's right," said Ron. He and Harry skipped a couple of steps and made it to the landing, serenaded by the Fat Lady's tittering, melodic snores. "If it's more than just us, Hermione, he might need more help,"

Hermione seemed deep in thought as she stood next to them, and took out a worn piece of parchment from the pocket of her robes.

"I think we know someone who _could_ help us out in that regard," she said, unfolding it slowly. Harry wondered what it meant, when the parchment only showed instructions on how to cast something called _the Muffling charm_. But then, as Ron audibly struggled to decipher the writing—Harry immediately recognized the awful handwriting.

"Right," he said, though he didn't quite know how to feel about it.

_"_ _Cedric."_

"What do you think?" asked Hermione, gently. "He's taking classes like Transfiguration at N.E.W.T.-level, _and _he's been learning extra defense from that book that Sirius gave him..."

Harry had to admit, it seemed an excellent idea, but perhaps she had glimpsed the hesitance on his face.

White-knuckles around an antique dinner-table. A body lying on Grimmauld's moonlit floor.  
A hand, freshly wounded: _I must not help liars._

Harry forced a faint smile, so as to not worry his friends.

"We can certainly ask" he said, turning toward the portrait.


	38. Hurt & Home (II)

"I'll do it," said Cedric, his eyes shining bright.  
Ron whipped around.

"Hang on, we haven't finished explaining it all yet—_"_

"But it's a brilliant idea,"

"Turn _around,_ Ron!" Hermione's hand hovered over a copied-out diagram of the Chinese Chomping Cabbage as she glared, "It defeats the whole purpose if you're looking right at him!"

A new morning had dawned upon the castle, broad streaks of cloud spelling warm weather in an open sky.  
Because Hermione insisted _against_ approaching Cedric within a discernible range, they all lounged inside the library with a bookshelf forced in-between—it was an ancient thing made of macassar ebony—separating the three Gryffindors on one side, while Cedric leisurely perused some books on the other. (Harry still had no idea how they even found him in the first place, but was told it had something to do with the ghosts of Sir Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Friar.)

Crossing his arms, Ron turned, leaning against the shelf once more; its ebony veins shining in a smooth veneer.  
"I still think that this is a bit excessive,"

"Then it _might _just work when worst comes to worst," Hermione replied, unperturbed. The bookshelf warped into a long desk that touched the wall, and there she sat with crossed legs, furiously scribbling on her parchment.

"Excessive or no, I'm glad you guys have come up with it," said Cedric. Energetically, he flipped a page in a large, fur-covered book, "it's just what everybody needs,"

"We could get into trouble—" said Harry. He crouched cautiously to a lower shelf and pretended to look at a book labelled '_Asiatic Anti-Venoms'— _"if we're right about what Umbridge is here to do, and she finds out; it could easily be _more_ than just lines,"

"Then, we just won't get caught," said Cedric. He crouched down to the same level, catching his eye over the same row of musty, old books, "besides, it's not like... wait, how many did you say?"

Harry shrugged. He looked back at Hermione, who seemed extremely focused on her diagram.

"It's just a few here and there," she said, loosely, her hand drew out straight lines across the parchment, "We haven't talked to many people,"

"Well, regardless, I'd be happy to teach alongside if you'll have me."

"You're certain you can take it on?" Ron yawned. "You've got Quidditch to prepare for, haven't you? _And_, it's your final year!"

"Why not? People could stand to learn a little more than just Defense Against the Dark Arts, and I should brush up on my duelling skills, anyways,"

Cedric's eyes grew hazy for a moment. "Besides, this is important, right,"

Harry gave a mild exhale, though it did not sound like he _disagreed—_

"That's why we're doing this?"

He nodded; though still seemed unconvinced.

"Well, you're free to say no up til the day of the trip, so just… just think about it, _properly, _I mean," Harry said. "If you end up not showing, then there'll be no hard feelings at all, we'll understand—"

"I don't need to _think_ about it; I'll be there," Cedric seemed more lucid in his expression, no longer holding an air of excitement in the light of his face. It was earnest. It didn't matter that they had broken the rules by looking directly at each other; it eased Harry.

"We'll see you in Hogsmeade," he murmured. Cedric smiled; a tuft of hair fell against his face. He got to his feet, stretched his legs for a moment, then—and without another word—he walked briskly out of sight.

Harry stared in space. His fingers ran up and down the lacerations healing at the back of his hand.

"Hermione?" he said, after a few seconds.

"Hm?"

"Could you teach me how to make that murtlap stuff?"

Both of his friends heads, whipped to him, surprised.

"Absolutely," Hermione said, after a moment.

"Cool,"

Harry stood, he looked at the watch around his wrist.

"We'd better get to class."

Hermione gathered up her things, hopped off her seat and Ron muttered a quick _"Finally."_  
Then, they hastily exited the library.

The next two days passed in a strange suspense, anticipation snaking through the late October air. Despite himself, Harry looked forward to the weekend trip into Hogsmeade.  
There had been many scheduled before this coming visit, but he and Ron had always forced themselves to sit inside the castle during those weekends, lest they fall behind in their load of homework (and Ron in polishing his Keeping skills).

One thing nagged at Harry, however.  
Sirius had maintained a stony silence since the last time he had appeared in the fire, and as the weeks have passed, Harry had grown steadily more troubled as no word came: not even a single letter. He knew that he had made his godfather angry with his overprotectiveness, but he still worried from time to time that Sirius may throw caution to the winds and turn up anyway.

What were they going to _do_ if a great black dog came bounding up the street toward them in Hogsmeade, perhaps within the visible range of _one_ Draco Malfoy?

"Well, you can't blame him for wanting to get out and about," said Ron, bracingly. Another day in, and the three traipsed down to Hagrid's hut for Care of Magical Creatures, enjoying a decently sunned afternoon.

"I mean, he's been on the run for over _two years, _I know that can't have been a laugh... but at least he was free, wasn't he?"

Harry agreed.

"Now, he's stuck in Grimmauld," he said, glumly, his soles clunked against dusted soil, "Just shut in all the time with someone who hates his guts,"

"Kreacher doesn't hate his _guts—" _said Ron, in what strangely sounded like an attempt at reassurance— "I'd say his guts, and the entire rest of Sirius's body and blood are the _only things_ that Kreacher doesn't hate, really—_AGH!"_

Ron lurched forward, his foot missing a step, and Hermione and Harry instinctively grabbed some part of his robes to keep him from teetering over the edge.

"The trouble is—!" Hermione huffed, straining to pull him upright— "until V-Voldemort_—oh for heaven's sake, Ron—_comes out into the open, Sirius is going to have to stay hidden, isn't he? I mean, our stupid Ministry isn't going to realize that he's innocent until they accept that Dumbledore's been telling the truth all along... but once they start catching _real_ Death Eaters again: it'll be obvious that Sirius isn't one! He hasn't even got _the_ _Mark,"_

"Yeah! All he needs to do is _wait—"_ gasped Ron. They had finally steadied him, though he slipped an arm around Harry's shoulders for extra measure— "_Blimey! _... I mean, I reckon he's smart enough to figure _that_ out, and Sirius still listens to Dumbledore even if he doesn't like what he hears anyways, so..."

Harry nodded as they continued to slog along but couldn't help remain in doubt. When he continued to look worried, Hermione piped up.

"Listen. Ron and I have been sounding out the people that we thought might want to learn some proper Defense Against the Dark Arts, and there are a couple more who seem interested. We've told them to meet us in Hogsmeade,"

"Right," said Harry absently, his mind still on Sirius.

"... We've also told the teachers about what Umbridge has done to you and Cedric, as well,"

"Yeah... sounds reasonable,"

Ron and Hermione exchanged a furrowed glance.

"Don't worry, Harry," she said quietly. "You've got enough on your plate without Sirius too."

He kept quiet. She was right, of course; he could barely keep his head above classes and homework and fretting about Cedric and Hagrid, although, Harry knew he was doing much better now that he no longer spent every evening with Umbridge. In contrast, Ron was even further behind in work due to his prefect duties, whereas Hermione—who had taken on more subjects than either of them—had not only finished all her homework, but also found time to knit more clothes for the elves. Harry had to admit that she was getting better, it was now almost always possible to distinguish between the hats and the socks, and as they trailed down the steps with their conversation lightened by that thought: they came across Evan, climbing the hill as well, his tight coils tied into a handsome bun.

Harry had no clue what he was doing in this part of the castle; as far he knew, Evan did not take Care of Magical Creatures or anything related to it, but the boy gave a wide smile upon recognizing them, nodding as he passed through—covered in paint as usual—and the song that he hummed gradually faded away as the trio continued the path down.

"Oh!" Hermione said, suddenly; she frantically looked at Evan's retreating back, "Harry, don't you need to—...? Did you remember... _about the salve?"_

Harry nodded; he could hardly forget. Not only had he had spent a painstaking amount of time trying to get the concoction exactly right, but also, he tried his best to follow the particulars of Hermione's warnings.

"It's with Hidiyah. I got Neville to take it, apparently, he knows her from his Herbology Society thing," he mumbled. Hermione nodded, clearly relieved.  
It was understandable why she had insisted on all these precautions, but it felt odd to be going through intermediaries and indirect means again; Harry felt that it somehow made everything much more difficult.

"I know, I know..." Hermione moaned. He turned to her, with the fleeting and frightened impression that he spoken aloud by accident; but she had only read his face.

"We'll all be able to talk like normal soon... first thing in Hogsmeade," she assured.

"Mm." Harry nodded. He didn't say anything more; they reached the bottom of the hill and mixed into the larger group of their class—all yawning, or in various states of drowsiness—and they made their way towards Professor Grubbly-Plank', whose stout figure waved ardently at them, from the edge of the woods.

* * *

The morning of the Hogsmeade trip dawned bright but windy, with a rather large crowd of students gathered in the Clock Tower square. dressed warm and in various, lively colours. After breakfast, they queued up in front of Filch, who began the arduous task of matching their names to a lengthy list of all those with proper permission to go and visit the village.  
Shuffling forward in the line, Harry felt a slight pang at this, remembering that if it had not been for Sirius: he would not be going at all.

When finally, he reached Filch, the caretaker gave a great sniff, as though trying to detect a whiff of something from Harry. Then, he gave a curt nod that set his jowls aquiver and Harry walked on, out onto the stone steps and a cold, sunlit day.

"Does he think that _you're _the one smuggling Dungbombs into the castle?" said Hermione, incredulously.

"I suppose, he's still suspicious from when Mrs. Norris caught us at the Owlery," Harry muttered. Ron gave a laugh.

"The cat? You're saying that his _cat _went and told on you?"

"What? You're seeing McGonagall turn into one all this time and _not _wondering if there are secretly others?"

Ron screwed his face in slight repulsion, "I'd rather not know, thanks. I dunno if it'd be funny or just _scary, _if it were true,"

Harry gave a short bark of laughter, "Whatever, let's just head on to..." he paused.

"Where _are _we going?"

They walked between the tall stone pillars topped with winged boars and turned onto the road toward the village, a steady carry of wind whipping the strays of their hair into their eyes. Ron pulled his hat firmly onto his head, and Harry quickly shoved his gloves on. Hermione fumbled with the buttons on her coat.

"I've told the others to meet us in the Hog's Head—that other pub—you know, the one that's not on the main road. It's a bit, erm, _dodgy_, but it suits our purposes well; students don't normally go in there..."

Harry tried to catch Ron's eye to see his reaction at this, but he and Hermione both seemed adamant on moving forward. He shrugged.

"Lead the way,"

They reached the outskirts of Hogsmeade in a restful pace, the village looking as idyllic as ever with festive autumn decorations billowing under a bright sky.

Through the main street, they strolled by Zonko's Joke Shop—unsurprised to see Fred, George, and Lee Jordan going in—and passed the post office, whose delivery owls flew in and out of an open sunroof at regular intervals. Eventually, the trio broke off from the main road, turning left and walking up a little side street which led to a small inn. There, a battered wooden sign hung from a rusty bracket over the door, and as Harry grew closer, he could see the picture upon it depict a wild boar's severed head leaking blood onto the white cloth. It creaked in the wind.

The three of them stared it, uneasily.

"Well, come on," said Hermione, slightly nervous. She led the way inside.  
It was not at all like the Three Broomsticks, whose large bar gave an impression of gleaming warmth and cleanliness; instead, the Hog's Head comprised of one small, dingy, and very dirty room that smelled awfully close to goat.

At first glance, the floor seemed to be earthy but as Harry stepped onto it, he realized that it wasn't soil but stone;_ worn_ stone, beneath what seemed to be the accumulated filth of centuries' worth of customer boots. In the wooden walls that encased bay windows, each glass pane looked so encrusted with grime that very little daylight could permeate into the space. As a replacement, the bar was lit with the stubs of candles sitting on assorted barrels and crates gathered in the corners, alongside a fireplace and industrial gas-lamps—spines bent and protruding from the walls—which illuminated the spread of mismatched wooden tables around the area: some antique, some closer to haphazardly put-together wood scavenged from the hull of a ship, and a lot looking like dead tree-stumps on metal legs. Harry remembered Hagrid mentioning this pub in his first year: _"Yeh get a lot o' funny folk in the Hog's Head,"_ and could imagine what attracted such 'funny folk' to this establishment.

There was a man at the bar whose face was wrapped in dirty-grey bandages, gulping an endless stream of goblets filled with a smouldering, fiery substance through a small slit over his mouth. At a table by one of the windows, two figures shrouded in hoods sipped from metal tankards of shadowy, smoking liquid—Harry might have thought them dementors if they had not been talking in strong Yorkshire accents—and in a shaded corner beside the fireplace rest a witch with a thick, black veil that fell to her toes. They could just see the tip of her nose because it caused the veil to poke out slightly.

"I don't know about this, Hermione," Harry muttered, as they crossed to the bar. He was looking particularly at the heavily veiled witch. "Has it occurred to you that Umbridge might be under that?"

Hermione cast an appraising eye at the veiled figure.

"Umbridge is shorter than that woman," she said quietly.

"Are you purposely ignoring the fact that she can do magic?"

Hermione purposefully ignored him.

"Even if Umbridge does come in here there's nothing she can do to stop us, Harry. I've double and triple-checked the school rules, and we're not out-of-bounds! Study groups and homework groups are _allowed, _I just don't think it's a good idea if we parade what we're doing,"

"No," said Harry dryly, "'specially as it's not exactly a homework group you're planning, is it?"

The barkeep sidled toward them out of a back room. He was a tall, grumpy-looking and portly man with a great deal of grey hair and beard. For a reason that Harry could not place, he thought that the man looked vaguely familiar, though he could not think of a name.

"What?" the old man grunted.

"Three butterbeers, please," said Hermione. The man reached beneath the counter and pulled up three very dusty, very dirty bottles, which he slammed onto the bar.

"Six Sickles," he said.

"I'll get them," said Harry, quickly passing over the silver. The barman's eyes travelled over him, resting—for a fraction of a second—on his scar. Then, he turned away, depositing Harry's money into the drawer of an ancient wooden till, pulled open and closed with a translucent orange hand that trailed from his fingers.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione retreated to the farthest table from the bar and sat down, looking around, while the man in the dirty-grey bandages rapped the counter with his knuckles and received another smoking drink from the barman.

"You know what?" Ron whispered, looking over at the bar with enthusiasm. "We could order anything we liked in here, I bet that bloke would sell us anything and he wouldn't care! I've always wanted to try firewhisky—..."

However, as soon as he got to his feet, Ron flopped back down into his seat again with a great _flumpf!_

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked, alarmed. The smile faded from Ron's face.

"Can't... 'm a prefect," he mumbled. Hermione gawked at him with a mix of shock and approval before Harry changed the topic.

"So, who did you say is supposed to be meeting us?" he asked, wrenching open the rusty top of his butterbeer.

"Just a couple of people," Hermione said loosely, again. She checked her watch and looked anxiously toward the door. "I said to be here about now, and I'm sure they all know where we are, er... _oh!_ This might be them!"

The door of the pub opened. A thick band of dusty sunlight split the room in two for a moment before vanishing, blocked by the incoming rush of a rather sizable _crowd_ of people.

First, came Neville with Dean and Lavender, closely followed by Parvati and Padma Patil with—and Harry's stomach jolted—Cho, alongside one of her usually giggling girlfriends. Then, looking so dreamy that she might have walked in by accident, Luna Lovegood came in with Ginny, followed by three Ravenclaw boys that he was pretty sure were called Anthony Goldstein, Michael Corner, and Terry Boot, joined by one tall, skinny blond boy with an upturned nose (Harry recognized him vaguely as being a member of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team). Then, Katie Bell, Alicia Spinnet, and Angelina Johnson, Colin and Dennis Creevey, Ernie Macmillan, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Hannah Abbott, and a Hufflepuff girl with a long plait down her back whose name Harry did not know. Finally, Fred and George Weasley with their friend Lee Jordan brought up the rear, all three of whom were carrying large paper bags crammed with Zonko's merchandise.

"A couple of people?" said Harry, hoarsely. He turned to Hermione and Ron, _"A couple of people?"_

"Yes, well, the idea seemed quite popular," said Hermione, timidly. Harry scoffed. No wonder she had been so fidgety the entire way. "Ron, help me pull up some more chairs?"

Ron had already gotten up.  
"Right ahead of you," he said.

Behind the counter, the barman had frozen in the act of wiping out a glass with a rag so filthy, it looked as though it had never been washed. Possibly, he had never seen his pub so full.

"Hi," said Fred, reaching the bar first and counting his companions with a sweeping glance. "Could we have... _thirteen... twenty-two... _twenty-five butterbeers, please?"

The barman glared at him for a moment, then, throwing down his rag irritably as though he had been interrupted in something very important—exactly _what, _no one could decipher—he started passing up dusty butterbeers from under the bar.

"Cheers," said Fred, grabbing three at a time. He faced the pub, "Alright, cough up, everyone! I haven't got enough gold for all of these..."

Harry watched numbly as the large chattering group took their beers from Fred and rummaged into their robes, their coats and their jackets to find coins. He could not imagine what all these people had turned up for until the horrible thought occurred to him, that they might be expecting some kind of _speech._ He rounded upon Hermione at once.

"What have you been telling these people?" he asked in a low voice. "What are they expecting?"

"I've told you, they just want to hear what you've got to say," said Hermione soothingly; but as Harry continued to look at her so exasperatedly, she quickly added, "You don't have to do anything yet! I'll speak to them first."

"Hi, Harry," interrupted Neville, beaming and taking a seat opposite to him. Harry forced a smile but did not say hi back; his throat was exceptionally parched. As Cho sat down across the table, she smiled at him as well, though her friend—who had curly reddish-blonde hair—did _not_ smile as she took the seat next to her, instead opting to give the entire room a thoroughly mistrustful look.

In twos and threes, the new arrivals followed, settling around Harry, Ron, and Hermione: some looking rather excited, others curious, and Luna Lovegood gazing dreamily into space as always. However, once everybody had pulled up a chair, their chatter slowly begun to lull down by itself as every eye drew upon and toward Harry. It was at this moment—half-way between the dying down of talk, and the sudden realization of how many people were _truly_ here—that he became struck with the most thorough and overwhelming desire to cut loose, that resolution to fight in a different or meaningful way be swiftly _damned._

He likely would've gone through with it too, if he did not have Hermione and Ron firmly guarding his exit points, _and_, if it were not for the door opening one last time: the tall goliath-like figure of Evan, followed by Hidiyah's golden bobbing head and Cedric, all bursting into the Hogs Head with a fresh shock of wind.

"See! I told you, we should've come earlier!" said Hidiyah, reproachfully. She wore a tweed skirt that swayed just above her knee.

"These were _limited _edition!" said Evan, clutching at a long wooden box, "All the shades are titled after a real thing that they're made _of, _and—!"

Hermione called out to them, "It's fine, there's lots of room and seats! You all can sit over to—"

"Cedric." Ron stood suddenly, causing Harry and Hermione to gaze up at him, "You take my spot,"

Without thinking, Harry's hand shot out, tugging on the hem of his sweater.

"You sure?" he said, worriedly. Ron patted his shoulder.

"They're all here for you two, aren't they? I'll go make sure that no one'll get _too_ out of line,"

As Ron moved away, Cedric promptly squeezed through, shedding his coat as he flashed Harry a quick smile.

"Hi," he barely spared anyone else a single glance, "alright?"

"... Alright," said Harry, relaxing into his seat. Though unseen, Ron smirked a bit as he walked towards the back of the crowd.

"Okay... should get this _started..."_ Hermione muttered, drumming her fingers against the wooden table. It creaked as she got to her feet and gathered a bit of her courage, _"Er, _well, _er… _hello!"

Though the group had been chatting lightly and glancing at Harry this whole time, bit by bit, they quietened down, focusing their attention instead on her, as Hermione's voice—slightly higher than usual out of nerves—carried across the room.

"Well, _erm_... well, you know why you're here. Harry had the idea—... I mean!" her eyes darted around,_"I_ had the idea... that it might be good if people who wanted to study Defense Against the Dark Arts—and I mean, _really_ study it, you know—not the rubbish that Umbridge is doing with us,"

"Hear, hear," said Anthony Goldstein, and Hermione looked deeply heartened—

"Well, I thought it would be good if we took matters into our own hands," she paused, looked sideways at Harry, and went on, "and by that, I mean, learning how to defend ourselves _properly. _Not just with proper theory but also, real _spells—"_

"You want to pass your Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L. too though, I bet?" said Michael Corner.

"Of course, I do," said Hermione at once. "But more than that, I want to be properly trained in Defense, since... _since..."_ she took a great breath, "Since, as you know... Lord Voldemort is _back,"_

The reaction was immediate and predictable.

Cho's friend shrieked and slopped butterbeer down herself, Terry Boot gave some kind of involuntary twitch, and the Patil sisters shuddered; even Neville gave an odd yelp that he managed to disguise into a cough, and Hidiyah jumped in her seat, causing Evan to drop his box to the floor with its content clattering loudly inside. Despite this, all of them looked fixedly and even eagerly at Harry.

"Th—that's the plan anyhow," said Hermione, "so if you want to join us, we need to decide how we're going to—"

"Where's the proof You-Know-Who's back?" said the blond Hufflepuff player unexpectedly. Everyone whipped to him as he sat in his chair, arms folded, staring with aggression.

"Oh. Well, Dumbledore believes... from some very reliable sources, that—" Hermione began.

_"Reliable?_ You mean Dumbledore only believes in_ him_," said the blond boy, nodding at Harry, almost accusingly.

"Yes, and—"

"One person isn't all _that_ reliable,"

_"Well—"_ Cedric began.

"Wait, who are you?" said Ron, rather rudely.

"Zacharias Smith, Hufflepuff Chaser," said the boy, turning in his direction at once, before he turned immediately to the front, again. "Look, I just think we've got the right to know _exactly_ what makes him say You-Know-Who's back,"

"That," said Hermione, intervening swiftly, "is really not what this meeting is _about—"_

"No, it's alright, Hermione," said Harry. It had just dawned upon him why there were so many people there, and it seemed oddly sweet—if _nauseating_—that she had not seen this coming.

"You're here for the firsthand story, yeah? What makes me say You-Know-Who's back?" he asked, looking Zacharias straight in the face. "Well, we saw him."

"You _saw_ him?" Zacharias repeated. "That's it?"

"Dumbledore told the whole school what happened last year, and if you didn't believe him, you won't believe me and Cedric: I'm not going to waste an _afternoon_ trying to convince anyone,"

The whole group seemed to have held its breath while they spoke. Harry had the impression that even the barman was listening in; he was wiping the same glass with the filthy rag, and it was becoming steadily dirtier.

Zacharias said dismissively, "All that Dumbledore told us last year was that you got ambushed by You-Know-Who and that the captain was knocked out and on the brink of death for most of it... he didn't give us _details,_ he didn't tell us exactly how it happened, and with _you_ being the only person to have actually _witnessed_ everything that you've been saying, I think we'd all like to see some proof of—"

"And as I _keep _saying... if you're here to see photos or a three-point lecture about what Voldemort and his Death Eaters look like when they try to kill you, we can't_ help!_" Harry snapped. His temper—always so close to the surface these days—was rising again, and he did not take his eyes from Zacharias Smith's aggressive face; he knew better than to lash out but felt determined not to give in, he would not look anywhere else but that _stupid nose _of_—_

"Would you like know, Zacharias?" asked Cedric, softly. "Truly?"

Both Harry and Zacharias's head whipped back from glaring each other, startled.

Cedric had shifted forward, somehow treading the line between being perfectly diplomatic and _intensely_ intimidating at the same time.

"Truly?" he asked, again.

"Captain. I don't mean anything by it. Like I said, I'm just—"

Cedric took out his wand and waved it circularly above his head; light began to trail from its very tip, winding round and round until it created a bright and glowing orb that floated down to the middle of his palm.

"Let me tell you if you're so curious then, because when _Voldemort_—" and Cedric said that name so firmly, yet the crowd only winced, more enthralled than horrified as he wound the golden orb larger and larger— "when _Voldemort _ambushes you, you're dead. Simply like that. Murder: that's what it's like... Would you like to ask what being _dead_ is like?"

He inhaled and blew, the orb moved—it was about the size of a mountainous gobstopper—and it drifted aloft in between the group, bouncing from shoulder to shoulder.

Zacharias sat up in his chair, "It's not that I _don't _believe you—"

"Won't you ask?" said Cedric, cutting him off. Zacharias stayed silent.

Without looking away, Cedric stared at him, and then he snapped his fingers. The orb immediately disappeared, but that was not all that went out.  
The brightest burning candles to the right of the group, the entire row of gas lamps above their heads—even the fireplace flickered—and the line of smouldering, smoking drinks that the barkeep had made for the bandaged man all blew out within a single breath. They shivered.

It was as if a draft had entered the room and gone to their heads.

"You're here," Cedric addressed the group now, "because some small part of you are all asking the same kinds of questions: _what was it like? _What would it be _like_ being dead?"

Cedric took his time, gazing left to right, pouring into every single face.

"Because if Dumbledore's right, if Harry's right, if _we _are right... then you all know that _dead_ is what you're going to be," Cedric snapped his fingers once more; the orb reappeared in front of Zacharias's face, and it simply hovered in place, barely touching his nose.

Then, with the echo of a scream whispering in everybody's ear, the orb seemingly broke in half; a dark and smokey skull erupting from within before it all faded away into Cedric's wand.

"There. Just like that. There's _one _answer for you." he put his wand away and leaned forward, elbows against the table. "You can keep asking all the questions that you'd like, but if you're not here to make sure that you _stay _standing after you ask them... then I suggest you leave,"

Silence.

The lights re-ignited.

Cedric watched them all, waiting, but no one left their seats; not even Zacharias, whose shoulders hunched slightly lower than before.

"Please go on, Hermione," Cedric said, gently.

"... T-thank you, Cedric... _erm..."_ Hermione staggered a little in her spot. Besides Harry, she looked just as unnerved as everyone else, and yet set her arms down on the table in new confidence. "Well. As he put it, we're here to... to _stay _standing, so to speak... erm, we're here to learn defense, and if you all are on the same page then we need to work out how we're going to do it, how often we're going to meet, and where we're going to—"

"Were you scared?" said Cho, suddenly. She looked at Cedric from across the table with her eyes wide. "Was it scary to face Him?"

"Yes," Cedric said, without hesitating. "Are _you?"_

Tentatively, Cho nodded. Some of the group also murmured in quiet agreement, and Cedric softened.

Harry felt his ear twitch.

"Well, good. Hang onto that, the fear is normal, but... sitting in Umbridge's classes, learning the exact the opposite of what you're supposed to be: those things won't help you be _less_ scared. We have to learn _real,_ defensive techniques, and the only person who can teach us..."

Cedric gestured beside him; Harry jerked at the sudden shift in attention.

"The only one who can do it, is Harry."

Promptly, the girl with a long plait down her back piped up, as if she had been waiting to ask this question, "Is it true that you can produce a Patronus?"

Murmurs of interest broke out at this.

"... Harry?" Hermione pressed, gently.

"Yes," he said, slightly nervous. "Yes, I can do that."

"A _corporeal_ Patronus?"

The phrase stirred something in Harry's memory.

"You don't know a Madam Bones, do you?" he asked. The girl smiled.

"She's my aunt; I'm Susan Bones," she said, "she told me all about your hearing. So, it's really true? You make a stag Patronus?"

"Yes,"

"Blimey, Harry!" blurted Lee, looking deeply impressed. "I never knew that!"

"Mum told Ron not to spread it around," said George, grinning at Harry. "She said you got enough attention as it was."

"She's not wrong," mumbled Harry and a couple of people laughed. The veiled witch sitting alone by the fireplace, shifted very slightly in her seat.

"And, did you kill a basilisk with that sword in Dumbledore's office?" demanded Terry Boot. "That's what one of the portraits on the wall told me when I was in there last year..."

"Oh, _er,_ yeah," said Harry. "I did, yes,"

Justin Finch-Fletchley whistled, the Creevey brothers exchanged awestruck looks, Lavender Brown even mouthed a very soft _"wow"_. Harry felt slightly hot in his hoodie now; he was determinedly looking anywhere else but Cedric and Hermione, who—and he could positively _feel_ them do this—grew brighter and brighter with every word.

"And in our first year," said Neville proudly, to the group at large, "he saved that Sorcerous Stone—"

_"Sorcerer's,"_ hissed Hermione.

"Yes! He saved that, from You-Know-Who," finished Neville. Hannah Abbott's eyes were as round as Galleons.

"And that's not to mention," said Cedric, "all the tasks he had to get through in the Triwizard Tournament last year; getting past dragons, the merpeople, and the acromantulas among everything else,"

Harry looked at him.

"You did all that too,"

"What an accomplished young man!" called Evan from the back. He seemed to have been waiting for someone to mention Cedric, and there was another low sound of impressed agreement around the table.

"So, you'll be teaching as well, Cedric?" Ginny said.

"Only as a mere aid to this grand master," he replied, bowing his head slightly. They laughed.

"Look," Harry said, and everyone fell silent at once, "I... I don't want to sound like I'm trying to be modest or anything, but... I had a lot of help with all that stuff... Cedric included, we didn't—"

"Not with the dragon, you didn't," said Michael Corner at once. "That was a serious bit of cool flying..."

"And nobody helped you get rid of those dementors, this summer," said Susan Bones.

"Yeah, well—"

"And Diggory! You did a Bubble charm for the second trial, didn't you?" said Padma Patil, abruptly, "Flitwick said that you were the only student in Hogwarts to have it figured out!"

"He managed to trick the dragon last year, too! With a _very_ clever bit of Transfiguration!" Hidiyah embellished, from the back.

"Alright!" said Harry, "Alright, okay, we've done _some_ stuff without help, but the point I'm trying to make is—"

"Are you trying to weasel out of showing us any of this stuff?" interjected Zacharias Smith.

"Here's an idea," said Ron loudly, his voice burst forth, before Harry could even speak, "why don't you _shut_ your mouth?"

Perhaps the word _"weasel"_ had affected Ron particularly strongly; in any case, he now looked at Zacharias as though he would like nothing better than to thump him.  
Zacharias flushed.

"Well, we've all turned up to learn from him, and now he's telling us he can't really do any of it!"

"That's not what he said," snarled Fred Weasley.

"Would you like us to clean out your ears for you?" inquired George, pulling a long and lethal-looking metal instrument from inside one of the Zonko's bags.

"Or any part of your body, really, we're not fussy where we stick this..." said Fred.

"Put that down!" said Hermione hastily. "Moving on, what I'm hearing is...! Well, we're all agreed, then? About taking lessons from Cedric and Harry?"

There was a murmur of general agreement. Zacharias Smith nodded at Cedric's name but folded his arms and said nothing at the mention of Harry, though perhaps this was because he was too busy keeping an eye on the instrument that George played with, in his right hand.

"Great!" said Hermione, looking relieved that something had, at last, been settled. "Excellent. Well then, the next question is how often we do it. I really don't think there's any point in meeting less than once a week—"

"Wait!" said Angelina, "We need to make sure this doesn't clash with our Quidditch practice."

"No," said Cho, "nor with ours."

"Nor ours," added Cedric, though he didn't seem as concerned as the two before him.

"Well, I'm sure we can find a night that suits everyone," said Hermione, slightly impatiently, "but you know, this is rather important, we're talking about learning to defend ourselves against V-Voldemort's Death Eaters—"

"Well said!" barked Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry had been expecting to speak long before this. "Personally, I think this is really important, possibly more important than anything else we'll do this year, even with our O.W.L.s coming up!"

He looked around expectantly, as though waiting for people to cry, _"Surely not!"  
_However, when nobody spoke, he went on, "I, personally, am at a loss to see why the Ministry has foisted such a useless teacher upon us at this critical period. Obviously, they are in denial about the return of You-Know-Who, but to give us a teacher who is trying to actively prevent us from using defensive spells—"

"Well, we think _a _reason that Umbridge doesn't want us trained in Defense Against the Dark Arts," said Hermione, "is because she's got some... some _mad_ idea that Dumbledore could use the students in the school as a sort-of private army. She thinks he'd mobilize us against the Ministry,"

Nearly everybody looked stunned at this news; everybody except Luna Lovegood, who piped up, "Well, that makes sense. After all, Cornelius Fudge has got his own private army."

"Yeah, I know, it's... wait, _sorry?"_ said Harry, completely thrown by this unexpected piece of information. Unbeknownst to everyone, who precipitously focused on Luna: Cedric broke into a large grin.

"He has an army of heliopaths," said Luna, solemnly.

"Erm, no, he hasn't," said Hermione.

"Yes, he has," said Luna.

Harry saw Ron slap a hand to his mouth at the back of the group.

"What are heliopaths?" asked Neville, looking blank.

"They're spirits of fire," said Luna, her protuberant eyes widening so that she looked madder than ever. She brought her arms, wrists arching hands shaped like claws toward the ground, "Great tall flaming creatures that gallop across the ground burning everything in front of—"

"They don't exist, Neville," said Hermione, quickly.

"Oh yes they do!" said Luna, just as fast.

"I'm sorry, but where's the proof of—"

"There are plenty of eyewitness accounts! I can show you in last week's edition of the Quibbler—"

_"Hem, hem," _said Ginny in such a good imitation of Professor Umbridge that several people looked around in alarm and then laughed. "Sorry, but weren't we trying to decide how often we're going to meet and get Defense lessons?"

"Yes," said Hermione at once, "yes, we were, you're right..."

"Once a week sounds good," said Lee Jordan.

"As long as—" began Angelina.

"Yes, yes, we-know-about-the-Quidditch," said Hermione rapidly, in a tense voice. From the back, Ron snorted. "The only other thing to decide is _where_ we're going to meet..."

The whole group fell silent; this was rather more difficult.

"Library?" suggested Katie Bell after a few moments.

"I can't see Madam Pince being too chuffed about the prospect of us doing jinxes by her books," Hidiyah said.

"Then, an unused classroom?" said Dean.

"McGonagall might let us have hers," said Ron, "she did that when Harry was practicing for the tournament..."

But Harry felt certain that McGonagall would not be so accommodating this time; for all that Hermione had said about study and homework groups being allowed, he had the distinct feeling this one might be considered a _dragon_ more rebellious.

"Right, well... we'll try to find somewhere," said Hermione, thoughtfully, "and we'll send a message round to everybody when we've got a time and a place for the first meeting."

Rummaging in her bag, Hermione produced parchment and a quill before hesitating, almost as though she was steeling herself to say something.

"I-I think everybody should write their name down, just so we know who was here. But I also think," she took a deep breath, "that we all ought to agree not to _shout_ about what we're doing. So, if you sign, you're agreeing _not_ to tell Umbridge—or _anybody else_—about what we're up to."

Fred reached out for the parchment and cheerfully put down his signature, but Harry noticed at once, that several people looked less than happily at the piece of parchment.

A familiar voice rang loudly in the pub.

"What're you all waiting for! Make _way_ at least,"

Evan waded his way through the front, with Hidiyah in tow, and they put their names down; the former flourishing his wand into a thin, calligraphy brush, while the latter took out what looked like a pen fashioned out of a wood-carving knife.

"Most important thing we'd ever do in our lives, eh?" Hidiyah grinned, looking at Ernie as she passed. He suddenly gathered up his breath and puffed out his chest again.

"Of course!" he exclaimed, and he seized the quill from Fred's hand, writing his signature exuberantly. After Ernie, no one raised any further objection and the group trickled toward the table, gradually filling the parchment out. When the last person—Zacharias—had signed, Hermione took the parchment back and slipped it carefully into her bag. An odd sort-of feeling struck the air within the group now; it was as though they had just signed some kind of contract.

"Well, time's ticking on," said Fred briskly, getting to his feet. "George, Lee, and I have got items of _sensitive_ nature to purchase, so we'll be seeing you all later!"

In twos and threes, the rest of the group took their leave, too. Cho made a rather extensive business of fastening the catch on her bag, the long and dark curtain of hair swinging forward to hide her face, but her friend stood beside her—arms folded and waiting—so that Cho had little choice but to depart with her.

However, before she followed her friend, Cho looked back and waved at Harry, her gaze lingering a little bit to the right of him until she finally left through the inn's old wooden door. Harry did not know if Cedric had noticed; he saw the others around him get up, and he scratched behind his ear.

"Well, I think that went rather well," said Hermione happily, as she, Harry, and Ron walked out of the Hog's Head into the bright sunlight a few moments later.

"Yeah... that Zacharias bloke's bit of a wart, though," said Ron, who was glowering after the figure of Smith just distinguishable in the distance. "He kept interrupting you both,"

"I don't like him much either," admitted Hermione, "but he overheard me talking to Ernie and Hannah at the Hufflepuff table and he seemed really interested in coming, so what could I say? The more people the better really—I mean, Michael Corner and his friends wouldn't have come if he hadn't been going out with Ginny—"

Ron, who had been draining the last few drops from his butterbeer bottle, gagged and sprayed the drink down his front.

"Wait, what? What d'you mean?"

"What do you mean, what do _I_ mean?"

"Ginny and—..." Ron glanced somewhere behind Harry's shoulder— "Oh, come on 'mione, you've _got_ to tell me!"

He abruptly grabbed Hermione's shoulders as he continued to splutter about his sister, and as Harry moved to amusedly follow, he stopped: feeling something approach him from behind.

"So, we've done _it,"_ a voice said. Harry smiled before he turned.

"'Certainly done _something,"_ he blinked, shielding his eyes from a ray of light. He beheld Cedric's familiar grin and looked around, "Where are your friends?"

"Oh, Evan and Hidiyah have gone to pester Ollivander as usual—" Harry raised his brow— "she's been wanting to be his apprentice for years, you see... haven't convinced him yet, though,"

"But how's she getting to London? Last I remember, his shop's still on Diagon Alley,"

Cedric tapped a finger against his lips, "Good thing she got her Apparition license then,"

"And, that we're out of the castle's wards," Harry said, in quick realization. Cedric grinned wider.

"Always wished that she'd put more of her cunning _into _school rather than escaping it, but..." Cedric shrugged. "So, where are _your_ friends?"

"Oh, they're—" Harry turned back and spotted Ron and Hermione stood the middle of street, pointing them out.

"Why's Ron look like that?" Cedric asked.

"He just found out that Ginny got her first boyfriend,"

"Oh. Oh, right! Corner,"

"You know about him?"

"Ginny briefly mentioned meeting him in the Yule Ball, yeah... he's in your year, isn't he?"

Cedric burst into laughter when Harry gave a blank look.

"You ought to _know _that kind of stuff, you know! Especially since we'll be seeing him in the future,"

"Well, not all of us are as popular as you,"

"It's not about _popularity..._ besides, you'd be surprised," Cedric said, his smile turned stiff. Harry's brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

"Well," Cedric said awkwardly, "well. You mustn't keep them waiting,"

"Where are you going?"

Cedric pointed behind his shoulder. "Back up the castle. I think I'm entitled to a bit of a rest,"

Harry nodded. He glanced back to his friends, who waved at him from a distance and he turned back.

"Can I come with?" he asked.

"Oh, yea—... _really?"_ Cedric swung his arms forward and held them behind his back, "You don't, _er, _have any shopping with Ron and Hermione to do?"

Harry waved back to his friends, and then he pointed toward Cedric. "I'm sure they'll be fine without me,"

In the middle of the crowded street, Hermione and Ron waved heartily at Cedric. He gave a small laugh and waved back.

"Then, shall we?" he asked. Harry nodded, and they set off down the main road, navigating through the the village's bursting energy.

"I got your brew by the way," Cedric said. He and Harry snaked through the crowd, trying to avoid getting pulled into the stream of students shooting straight toward Honeydukes. "Strained and pickled murtlap?"

"Hermione's recipe. She'd made it for me a couple of times, so I thought..."

"Clever as always. Even Hidiyah was impressed," Cedric smiled at him. "Thanks,"

Breaking into the quieter fringes of the village, they crossed the threshold of cobblestoned walkways and tall lamplights back to a wide and well-trodden trail that led through the hills. Harry kicked a pebble that rolled to his feet, and it hit the metal of a hand-painted signpost pointing them the right way. The wind whistled.  
They were the lone travellers on this dirt path; you could still hear the din of Hogsmeade bustling, there was a chorus of aged leaves scuttling down long-grassed slopes—flashing in the sunlight before they eventually plummeted into the shallow pools of the lowlands—but Cedric and Harry walked on, otherwise alone, staring to the distant outline of the castle against the horizon. Together, they clambered up the hill with a fresh breeze filling their lungs, and they strolled under a bright and cloudless sky.

"I didn't know that murtlap tentacles smelt like lavendar," Cedric said, offhandedly.

"They don't." Harry looked away, a little embarrassed.

He had mixed the lavender in.

Cedric's hand swung wide into the daylight. They were unbandaged, and while Harry thought he could make out the words engraved there, he could barely convince himself of the fact as up to the tips of his fingers, Cedric's arm was mostly hidden by the length of his sleeve.

Harry tripped over himself, loose dirt and shoelaces, trying to catch sight; deeply, he wanted to ask to see it, but could not help that acute twinge of guilt pricking at him in warning.

"Was it the last one?" he asked instead, it came out slightly warbled in air but if Cedric noticed, he did not say anything.

"It should be, for now," he nodded. "I suppose we should still be careful though,"

"Yeah... yeah, I'm sorry," Harry said, suddenly, "about your hand,"

"It isn't yo—"

"I know." Harry interrupted, before Cedric could finish, "I know. It wasn't my fault."

"Then, why apologise?"

Harry shrugged.

"I know how harsh the Black Quill is," his shoes scuffed to a halt, and he took out something wrapped in metallic purple and gold from his pocket. "And you don't deserve something so _cruel. _It was for my sake too, so... I'm sorry, and, _erm,_ thanks,"

He dropped it against Cedric's palm and pushed his hands inside his pockets again, waiting; Cedric glanced at the small gift that he had been given.

"Is this chocolate?" he asked. Harry nodded.

"Lupin used to do this... give me chocolate, I mean, whenever anything bad happened..." he scratched his neck and sighed. "I'm sorry that it's not much," 

"No!" said Cedric, immediately, "I'm not—... that kind of thing doesn't worry in the slightest; _thank you,_ Harry."

He closed his hand into a fist and placed the piece of chocolate inside his own pocket like it was something innumerably precious.

"Oh! And I suppose... you're welcome_,"_ he added, quickly, "right?"

Harry let out a relieved sigh.

"Yes," he grinned, "thank you,"

"You're welcome," Cedric beamed. "You know, I've been feeling much better, now that we've got this... this rebellion to enact against her,"

"Right... our rebellious _study_ group,"

"It still counts! Besides, who would've known?" Cedric laughed, and despite himself, Harry cracked a smile too. He put his hand out and skimmed through the bushes and thrush that lined their path, as they continued to walk along.

They quickly caught up with each other as they strode around the hill, it was peaceful sense of basking in sunlight: light voices, light laughter at the mercy of the element as the wind grew cold. Eventually, they rounded closer and closer to the bridge, an antiquated stone structure that looked like it been pulled from the very earth itself, wettened dark by yesterday's rain. Ivy, moss and maidenhair grew long and plentiful around its base, winking from its cracks and edges, and as they neared the foot of the bridge, the faint sounds of running water could be heard: a shallow stream coursing as blue as the sky above, from underneath.

"I see that you've made up with Ron," said Cedric. The wind blew a little harsher and they braced for it; Harry blew warmth once more into his gloved hands.

"Yeah! _Er,_ we did... it was after the first time we came to see you, actually,"

Cedric nodded approvingly, he wound his coat tighter, "I figured you know, back in the Hog's Head, but I thought I'd at least ask..."

"Right; did you know that Hermione had gathered _that_ many people there?" Harry asked, struck by the thought. When Cedric shook his head, he groaned, "Oh, I can't _believe_ she didn't tell us,"

"It worked out well though, didn't it?" Cedric bent toward the ground, picking up a smooth but dusty pebble. "They all ended up wanting to sign,"

"It could've just as easily gone to dung, if you weren't there."

Cedric scoffed. He hopped onto the bridge, strode to its peak and leaning over the side, he let the pebble drop.

_Kchk—plop!_

"I _mean_ it. You're remarkable, you know that?" Harry called. He walked beside Cedric, looking over the bridge wall as the stream spilled through a scatter of eroded, mossy rocks.

"What? Oh, with Zacharias? That's nothing, he's usually fine when—"

"No. I mean all the time, with everything," Harry turned, sitting on the wall; the village of Hogsmeade lay far behind him, its chimneys billowing with smoke and sunlight glinting off its various shingled rooftops, "You're _remarkable._ That's why I've decided to go through with it, that's why I had asked... It was all Hermione's idea, but, the only reason I stayed sitting there... it was because I trusted_ you,"_

Footsteps echoed against the stone. That soft sound of running water felt just as cool in Harry's ear as the wind did, blowing gently through his clothes, against his cheeks. The stone was rough and solid beneath him, Cedric was by his side, smelling like lavender, and then it happened—

Cedric leaned in.

Harry stopped as he felt Cedric's arm glance behind him; he felt a hand touch his cheek, glide from up his neck to his ear, thread through his hair and stroke his temple and breath was drawn—he could not tell who—as Cedric leaned in, the most tender brush of a kiss pressed to the left of Harry's lightening scar.

Warmth filled, flooding, drowning.  
And his chest pounded, drowning.

Cedric pulled back, still holding his face; his hand had cupped Harry's cheek and they looked at each other.  
Cedric's eyes careful, while Harry was caught in a wide-eyed stare.

"Why are you looking at me like that?" whispered Harry, first breaking the silence.

A moment.

_Had he not heard?_

"Like what?" Cedric whispered as well. He thumbed Harry's cheek.

"Like that."

"Like _what?"_ Cedric said again, and as he brought his face closer and closer; Harry did not move, gazing at him.

"... like _that,"_ he said a second time, almost unable to get it out, his mouth dry. Cedric smiled slightly. He pressed his head against Harry's, before he dropped his hands and leaned backward.

His eyes were so incredibly warm.

"I think you already know," he murmured, holding his own hands together.

_"Then, tell me."_

Perhaps it was the proximity that threw him off. He had seen Cedric so many times, he could admit to admiring his looks—the way his eyes stared straight at you, the soft lay of his mouth—but this was different. This _was..._

"I'm sorry," Cedric shook his head. Then, he laughed, incredulous, _"Merlin,_ I'm sorry."

He could say nothing else, it was so _small. _It had been so small and already, there was an unimaginable pressure bursting from inside his chest that barely let him make another sound.

Harry said nothing as well. Instead, he watched Cedric's lips quirk into a small and sad smile as he looked out behind them, into the vast; into the empty but abundant heath around them, all the while he slowly grew more solemn.

"I _lied," _he looked toward Harry; they were less than an arm's reach away. "I lied to you, I'm sorry,"

"What about?" asked Harry.

"Cho."

Harry's eyes grew wider, still.

_"Cho?"_

"It was you," Cedric said, as gently as he could, "it was always... I lied, it didn't _matter_ about a mate and Cho, what mattered was whether _you _wanted to chase after her, it was always _just..."_ he stopped, mouth drier than ever, and then—as if he didn't want the stones under the bridge to hear—

"It was always _just_ you,"

The wind whistled. Harry felt the breath knock outside his chest and was barely able to mouth an _"Oh," _which bode strangely well, as he would not have been heard what came so softly next.

Cedric leaned in, again.

"I care about you," he whispered, eyes creased in fondness, "that's all I'm saying. I care about you, and... I care what you think about _me, _a lot."

Time stopped. Sound, the air, the sun became swallowed up in one moment—in one, single breath.  
Cedric laughed, nervously again. He looked to Harry.

_"I'm sorry," _ he repeated. Harry took a breath.

He took another just in case the first hadn't been real and he gazed—heart pounding so rapidly—in full realization of everything about the boy sitting beside him: how breathless, how flushed his cheeks were from battling winds, how his grey eyes sparked with so much warmth that it came as a surprise that none of the stone around them melted when they flashed like silver sunlight, and that _smile—_

"Do you take my meaning?" Cedric asked, tilting his head, his lips were curled into a dare. Merlin.

_Merlin._

That smile.

Harry nodded. He sat still on the bridge wall and he could feel the chill of the wind start to bite into his clothes, yet his body did not shiver; heat shot to his cheeks fast and quick.

He nodded.

"Good, _good," _Cedric got to his feet, touching the nape of neck. "You can just... let me know then, _whenever—_" he seemed unable to look directly anywhere as Harry bore into him, unblinking— "whether I have a shot or not, I would... I would _really_ like to know,"

Fingers pressed against his neck. Nails digging.  
His voice trembled.

The world restarted again.

"Give me time." Harry said, immediately, (and the world stopped.)

He took his hands out of his pocket and stood, stepping toward Cedric, full of something so _immeasurably_ large that he couldn't yet hope to name it.

"Let me... let me think, first,"

Oh.

"I-I want to think, _seriously, _about it, you see... because I—I care as well. About you, I mean—"

_Oh, _Cedric thought.

"Right,"

"—you're my friend, _of course, _I care about you, obviously—but—but that's not, _erm..._ it's different..."

"Yeah,"

"... it's a different kind of care that you're asking, and, and!"

_How much can I…_

"Harry—"

_How much can I touch him?_

"So... _so..._" Harry breathed hard, gulping down air. "W-Would you say something else! I... I don't know what to..."

Cedric moved forward, hand reaching for Harry's own; his fingers slipped inside his grey woollen glove and pulled it off so easily, until it was only the barest skin of their fingers and scarred hands touching; pressed against the cold.

"I understand," Cedric said, softly, and he shook his head, "Take as long as you need,"  
He felt his heart hammer loud, thick— "as _long_ as you need," and he closed his eyes and let their fingers intertwine, "I'll wait."

The way he whispered cleared the dark pool of Harry's mind, it just let everything _fade_ away; nothing else but the sun that warmed his back, the running of water below, music that played from the village in the distance, and their hands entwined with each other.

Harry gazed at Cedric with the same dense heartbeat inside his chest,

"Well... shall we?" Cedric said. He eventually let go, picking Harry's glove up from the ground and offering it forward.  
They stood on the bridge, less than an arm's reach apart, staring at everything else but the large and long-grassed valley around them.

Harry took the glove.

"Right. Onward, I suppose," he said, shoving it inside his pocket. Cedric smiled.  
Harry's heart pounded.

They continued walking along their path.


End file.
